


So Darkness I Became

by warmommy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abortion, Canon Divergence, Character Driven Plot, F/M, Miscarriage, Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy, spousal abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-01-16 20:30:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 74,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12350142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmommy/pseuds/warmommy
Summary: Stark!reader x Tormund Giantsbane. This veers swiftly from canon after the Battle of the Bastards, where Tormund kills Smalljon Umber, your husband. After having been prisoner of the Umber and losing Rickon and Osha, your despondency is tempered only by your affinity for the Wildling that rid the world of Smalljon. Spending the night together sets off a chain of events which leads to circumstances none could have foreseen. As you and your sister grieve your family, the dead start to appear in your dreams. When they begin to hurt you, it doesn't take long for you to see that the damage they deal in your dreams appear on your corporeal form. Meanwhile your relationship with the new King-Beyond-the-Wall progresses, and your loyalties--between the Starks, Umbers, and Free Folk--come under question. Jon grows eager to use you as the figurehead for House Stark, House Umber stakes their claim that you become Lady Regent for young Ned Umber to bring stability to the relationship between your houses, and the Free Folk become impatient for you to become one of theirs. Then the Brotherhood Without Banners arrive at Winterfell, bringing with them a Hound, a horror, and a drunken priest who becomes your de facto advisor.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find this and a lot more at my tumblr, warmommy.tumblr.com!

 

Your name: submit [What is this?](http://silencethroughwords.tumblr.com/readerinsert)

 

 

You sat in waiting outside of Jon’s ‘small council’ chambers—really, just another empty room in an empty castle at the end of the world, and the world was ending, by the way your brother spoke. When he’d told you, after your rescue, of what was coming, your childish disbelief soon bled into existential crisis. If it was all over soon, if everything didn’t go perfectly, and it wouldn’t, no matter how you loved and supported him, then nothing mattered anymore. Nothing. Not Winterfell, not Last Hearth, nothing that had happened to you, nothing you had seen, nothing you had done, none of the treachery, nothing. Just nothing.

    
The walls were still heated through the hot springs, just as when you were a girl, though it felt almost unfamiliar now, making your seat on the worn stone alcove not uncomfortable. Through the window, you gazed out at the endless, starry night; the men’s voices sounded grim and grave as ever. As heavy footsteps approached the heavy door, you eased back against the wall again and watched the forms as they emptied the room and filed away to go drink or fuck away their troubles. You didn’t wait for Jon, this time, though.

“Tormund,” you whispered as the free man emerged. He turned and spotted you instantly, but you held your finger to your lips. When he gave you a slight nod of understanding, you tilted your head to the side in a silent beckoning to follow. You were light on your feet, and unsure at first if he would follow indeed, for even in the large stone halls of Winterfell, he was excellent at remaining stealthy and quiet as possible. You stopped at the very end of the corridor, before the turn, and, through the shadows, you could see his wild hair, see his hand on the hilt of his closest blade. It almost made you smile. Unlike so many men you had come to know since your father left Winterfell, he was a stranger, but still willing to offer you protection, without question. It was seeing this the week before, when Jon properly introduced you to his trusted friend and fellow warrior, curtseying before the wildling, that you knew not to be afraid.

You watched him come closer, and wished that you could feel more than self-pity and gratitude. You turned then and continued, grabbing a lit candle along the way.

  
“Y/N,” you heard him call, but you weren’t ready for words just yet.

  
Your old bedchambers had been scrubbed clean with white vinegar and warm water. All of the furniture had been replaced. Food and drink set upon your table. A roaring fire cast warmth and light upon you where you stood, a smile you couldn’t feel on your lips, hands folded before you, greeting your guest with a silent nod.

  
Tormund looked around uncertainly before stepping inside, even more uncertainly when you walked around to close and latch the door behind him. “What’s the trouble? Y/N?”

  
“There’s no trouble, actually. I’m very sorry if I gave you fright, I just didn’t want to be disturbed by anyone else and didn’t want Jon trying to step in between us again.” You crossed the room to the spread on the table, lowered yourself into a chair like Old Nan had taught you, and motioned for him to join. “I know the hour is quite late, and I’m sure there is much on your mind and much weighing on you, but, please, do indulge me this once and speak with me. I’ve even got that disgusting, rotten milk you drink.”

  
That grin, his signature grin, lightened his face immediately and he was even more handsome. “Means there’s more for me. You can keep all that grape-piss water to youself, m’lady.”

  
A genuine chuckle trickled past your lips. “I was under the impression your people didn’t recognise nobility and titles.”

  
“We don’t,” he was quick to agree, pouring himself a cup that made your nose wrinkle. “I respect Jon. Respect you. I’d expect the same in my own home, his respect, your respect.”

  
“That is a very honourable attitude to have, Tormund, but you can just call me Y/N.” You raised your wineglass.

  
“What are we roasting? Toasting,” he corrected himself.

  
You felt your eyes soften for the first time in so long. “You killed my husband.”

  
He watched you carefully, eyebrows raising slowly upward. Probably figuring out what to say. What was one supposed to say to such a thing? Tormund finally leaned down a bit over his elbow on the table, cocked his head to the side. “I thought I might apologise, even if I’m not sorry, but you don’t look the least bit angry or sad, lass.”

  
In spite of yourself, tears shone in your eyes, and slowly you shook your head. “I’ll never pretend, never, to have known the cruelty that my sweet Sansa was dealt, from watching our f-father. . .murdered, to that cunt Joffrey, to Ramsay. . .But you rid the world of Smalljon. I wasn’t there, of course, but I heard it was you that slayed him in battle.”

  
“Aye,” he said after a short pause. “He betrayed your family—”

  
“He took my last little brother to that  _monster_ , the whoreson. Osha, a free woman who I was proud to call my friend, managed to get me, Rickon, Shaggydog, and Rose to Last Hearth after we escaped Winterfell. Do you know what waited for us there?” you asked. Tormund shook his head and refilled his cup. “Kindness. A warm reception. Meat for our direwolves, food for our bellies, room for us, hope for us.” Now you emptied your glass, then slammed it on the table. 

  
“Y/N,” Tormund said softly.

  
“I’ve no desire to trouble you. I don’t even know why I’m telling you. This isn’t your problem.” You went to stand, shaking your head at your own foolishness, but a large, warm palm closed around your arm and gently pulled you back down.

  
“I was just going to say, it’s hot as fuck in this room, and I’m going to take this off. There’s more underneath, though.” He smiled wide at you again, pulling some furs off his shoulders and piling them on the floor. “There’s always more. Didn’t want to alarm you. You tell what you want to tell, and I’ll tell you what you want to hear when you’re done. Already know.”

  
“Thank you,” you whispered, staring rather impolitely. The shirt he wore underneath was spun in a way that was strange to you, and you’d never seen him without so much bulky covering before. Old Nan would have slapped you on the back of your hand. “We were there a long time, you know. And we knew the Greatjon and Smalljon. Had our entire lives. Even Osha trusted Smalljon. Time passed on, and things happened. Robb was killed, along with half my family in that one night. Things became. . .anxious. Then. . .” You sighed. “You knew of Smalljon, didn’t you? You know Last Hearth.”

  
“If you’re asking me that, you know that I do.”

  
“Yes. Last Hearth is where the wildlings hit first. There were always wildlings attacking Last Hearth and fighting Umbers, and the Umbers loved to kill wildlings—I mean you no offense, truly, Tormund—but when Jon gave you and your people safe passage through the gates of Castle Black, something snapped in Smalljon’s mind. His easy smiles turned into long, angry looks. He exploded into fits of rage and one night, he had my maid fetch me and told me he would give me and my family over to the Boltons unless I married him and took the name Umber, so I’d never be able to call my sons Starks.

  
“I was too frightened to refuse. I should’ve insisted he just send me, so I could at least have been there with Sansa, but I knew from the coldness in his eyes that he’d never spare my little brother or Osha. She was a tough bitch, through and through, but she had no chance against all of them. So I did it, and Smalljon became my husband and Umber became my name, and I had to let him do whatever he wanted and, in the end, he took them both away from me. He slaughtered Shaggydog right before our eyes—Rickon named him when he was just a small boy, and it may have been a ridiculous name, but a direwolf, such a strong, majestic creature! The sigil of my true name, my rightful house, the one he and his family have been sworn to for centuries, and the son of a whore tore Rickon from my arms and went off to Winterfell to trade him for Bolton soldiers to ‘kill those fucking wildlings’. I’ve never felt so fucking helpless in my life. My brothers, gone or dead, my sisters, gone or dead, my parents, dead, the Blackfish, dead. The Umbers never break an oath. Oh, he never loved me—his wife died and he wanted more sons and he didn’t want ‘that cunt’ bastard Ramsay to ruin me after he was done with my sister, little Sansa. She was still so little when I’d last seen her. He had no loyalty to anyone and he had no honour.”

  
You stood suddenly, pacing down the length of your new rug with the wine flagon in your hands. “I’ll never do it again, Tormund. I’ll never touch another man I don’t want and I’ll never be forced to marry again—Jon swore he would never marry me or Sansa to anyone not of our choosing.”

  
“If the boy ever tries, I’ll cut off his pecker myself,” Tormund said joylessly. You looked at him and nearly laughed. He was such a big man, he was nearly as tall as you were while still seated. “I mean it. I know just where to throw it, too.”

  
You stood nodding absently for a moment, then took a deep drink from your flagon and continued to pace. “I am a fucking Stark.”

  
“There’s no doubting that, lass. You were never no Umber. They’re all cunts.”

  
You spun, facing him again, and pointed in his direction, swaying gently. A rush of blood heated your face. “You killed him. You tore his throat out with your teeth.”

  
Tormund stood and took away the wine, then held you steady by your arms. “Come sit and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  
“I can handle my wine, I’m a Stark.” You grabbed his arms in turn after he’d seated you back in your chair. Gripping his homespun shirt, you drew him nearer and looked into his eyes. “You killed him. You felt the life leave him.”

  
He sank down to his knees in front of you—definitely not a kneel, more a matter of stability—and nodded. “I did tear his throat out with my own teeth. I spit out his flesh right in his face. I watched the life leave his eyes, watched the blood gush out his neck.”

  
Now your hands moved to his shoulders. “What did it feel like?”

  
Laughter shook him, and he placed his hands on the arms of your chair to keep from falling over. His eyes held surprise, but a bit of a glow, too. “You’re a real Northern woman, aren’t you?”

  
You sank somewhat and shook your heavy head. “No, I’m not. I dreamed of killing Smalljon. I’d stay up all night when he passed out in my bed, unable to get any sleep as long as he was there, and think of all the different ways I could kill him just while he slept. Slit his throat, cut out his eyes, shove his own sword straight up his ass—”

  
“You  _are_  a real Northern woman.”

  
“I was too weak. Too scared.”

  
Tormund shook his head. “Not for yourself, lass. For the boy, and for a wildling.  _That’s_  honour. Protecting your family, doing what you did to keep a woman you’d grown up believing a less-than-human savage from being killed. That’s honour. That’s courage.”

  
“They’re dead,” you cried, eyes shining again. It was the most you’d let yourself feel since locking yourself up again after seeing Sansa safe, and it was horrible. Horrible and humiliating. 

  
“Do you want me to tell you that it isn’t your fault?” He grew serious all of a sudden, stern almost, sombre, even. 

  
You froze in your seat. 

  
“The road I’ve walked on all my life is slick with the blood of my friends and my enemies. Even my son,” Tormund continued. “You feel like you failed, but even though their blood is in your footpath, you didn’t put it there. You didn’t kill them and you don’t want me to coddle you and tell you it’s all sunshine and farts, ‘cause you know it isn’t. You wanted me to hear how much you hated Smallcock Umber so I wouldn’t be shocked that you wanted to know the bloody details, to know what it felt like to watch him die. I’d do it all again if I could. I’ve seen you walk around with no light in your eyes long enough to wish I could’ve made him die slow, and now that I know the bloody details, I wish I could’ve made it last days, weeks. I wish I could’ve given him to you. I would’ve, if I’d known, but I didn’t. You’re angry with me, is that it? Angry it wasn’t you.”

  
You leaned forward and touched his face. “No. You’ve been saving my brother’s ass, fighting battles that weren’t yours, and you didn’t mean to and you didn’t know, but you’re the one who really saved me. Smalljon was a large and frightening man and he’s survived every battle he fought with Robb and more. It was no small thing to kill him. It took a huge fucker with big balls and you are that huge fucker with big balls.” Now you did sniffle, a hot trail of shame down your face. “I just knew he was going to come back, alive, and my Jon would be killed, and Ramsay would find Sansa and do even more unspeakable things to her, and I would still be Lady Umber, fucked like an animal and living in guilt and regrets. I know he would’ve come back, if it weren’t for you. He would’ve been able to. You stopped him and you gave him a death befitting a  _traitor_.”

  
Tormund mopped your cheek absently with his sleeve. “Truth be told, I was glad to cut him down. Now I’m giggled shitless.”

  
“I’m sorry for this.” You managed a smile. “I asked you here and I’m acting like a fool. Drink the rest of that rotten milk. Don’t make me be the only one drunk. How does that  _even_  work?”

  
“Better than that rotten grape juice, I promise. I’ll teach you all about being a Northerner, a real Northerner, starting with sour goat’s milk and how to string a bow. If anyone ever tries to treat you like Smallcock again, you can shoot him straight through the balls.” He got back into his chair now, and lifted his brow as he took another drink. “You sure as shit don’t talk like a lady.”

  
“Sansa’s the lady. Arya’s the little savage murder child. I’ve never been anything special like either of them. Never destined to be a queen, or, seven hells, a real-life assassin.” Peals of real laughter coming from your own lips surprised you, but it felt so good. “I think Father wanted me to marry in the North and give him lots of grandsons. He only ever wanted me to be happy. That’s all he wanted for any of us. Have you ever seen me and Sansa, side by side? She got Father’s height and Mother’s beauty and I got the reverse! Ah, the sweet girl.”

  
“You grew up brave and strong, lass. Don’t tell yourself different, that would be the foolish thing.”

  
“Wow.” You smiled into your wine. “That’s a great compliment coming from a free man. Thank you, Tormund. Proper thanks. For all the shit.”

  
“For saving your brother’s ass, killing your husband. . .” He cut himself off with that great, raucous laugh of his.

  
“Will you really show me how to use a bow? Mother was more strict with me than with Arya.”

  
“Yeah. . .” His eyes grew somewhat unfocused. “Your brother had a free woman. Ygritte. Short as you, stubborn as you, good like you. She could shoot the wings off a bee. You will, someday.”

  
“Someday I’ll dress myself head to toe in furs and live beyond the Wall, free as an eagle, and shoot the wings off of bees for you to eat them.”

  
Tormund eyed you strangely.

  
“I mean no offence. I’m actually quite serious. But it doesn’t matter much what I want to happen years from now, does it?” The wine was nearly gone.

  
“We fight,” Tormund said forcefully.

  
“You’ll fight longer than all of us, Giantsbane, but it’s likely we’ll all be dead in a year. I’ve thought a lot about this. Seven hells, I haven’t been able to keep impending doom out of my mind since being reunited with Jon.” You rolled your spine and stood, the drink making your limbs a bit heavier. “Not because you aren’t strong and brave, not because of anything other than them wanting us dead. And that means I’ve got a year, perhaps more, perhaps less, to make my life both meaningful and somewhat satisfactory.” Tormund’s lips parted as you sat down in his lap, one arm draped across his shoulder. Oh, this alone brought the fire within you again. “I don’t know where we’ll be or what will happen, but I don’t want to die without ever being properly fucked.”

  
You never thought you’d see Tormund speechless, and you certainly wouldn’t now. “And who have you been talking to about proper fucking?”

  
“I’ve never even let on that Smalljon ever bedded me to anyone else, let alone spoke of proper fucking, but the world will either end or it won’t, and I’ve always wanted to. I used to think about men ceaselessly. There was a man who was house guard for the Starks, Jory, and from the time I was fourteen, I wanted him to fuck me against the stone walls.” You said the words with your forehead on his shoulder so that Tormund couldn’t see your heated blush. You said it soft, low, aloud for the first time. You felt him breathe in sharply and hold that breath in his chest. It brought a crooked smile to your lips, and you turned your head incrementally to touch them to his warm neck, felt the muscle there jump. “You free men know that women want it, no matter who they are, lady or peasant, it makes no difference. And you, Tormund. . .” Ever slightly, you nuzzled his pinpricked flesh. “I had to swear that I was his and he was mine until my last day, and I can think of no one better to break that vow with.”

  
He pulled you closer, tighter, forward to face him, all while releasing a low, rumbling growl. His face was more pink than usual, and he was staring across the room at the fire. Before you could kiss him, he squeezed your thigh. “I’m dying now just from the smell of your hair, but I can’t add to your list of regrets, lass.”

  
“No one has to know. It’s just for me and you, and then you don’t ever have to speak to me again.”

  
“And what if that isn’t how I want for it to be? What if I’ve wanted you, too, and what if I’m a jealous fucker that won’t want to see you breaking your vows with another man?”

  
“Then you’ll fuck me as long as you wish until the Long Night takes us all.”

  
With another growl, he started tugging and pulling gently at your dress, growing louder with his frustration. “I don’t understand these fancy little silk dresses you folk wear. How does it come off? I don’t want to. . .” He looked confounded. “You are beautiful, in this ridiculous dress. Help me before I ruin it.”

  
A touch of enchantment softened your eyes to him. “You’ve weakened my knees. Help me to stand before I fall.”

  
“Lass, it was all the drink that weakened your knees.” When he stood, he held you steady.

  
You reached inside the front of your dress to open it to his eyes. For all your brash and crude talk, there still had only been one man to look on your body before, and Smalljon was hardly satisfied in seeing it. Tormund’s eyes followed the movements of your hands and the slow opening of your bodice. “You think I’m beautiful?”

  
Tormund scoffed as he tried to tug his shirt over his head. “You think I’m blind?”

  
Your eyes were instantly drawn to healing wounds, scars both old and new, some mere lines, some discoloured and raised. You pointed to one such healing wound in particular, red and almost scarified. “That was him, wasn’t it?”

  
He looked at it, then nodded. “Could have been.”

  
Without thought, you hugged him, enjoying the feel of his height towering over yours and his chest against your exposed breasts. “How about. . .” You kissed an old scar. “You fuck me as many times as you’ve killed?”

  
Tormund grabbed you by the hair and pulled, exposing your ear and neck to him. An involuntary shiver rippled across your body just when his beard touched your sensitive skin. You were rapt, waiting, wanting. “Y/N, that’d equal up to a lifetime of fucking.”

 You tried to move just a touch, but he held you still and bit down below your ear, this time drawing noise from you. 

  
“There’s men who can fuck the same woman their whole lives and never learn what it takes to make her wild and weak.” He encouraged your hands to hold onto him and walked you backward to your bed with its polished posts and fresh coverings. “That husband of yours never would’ve figured out what I just did in ten seconds.”

  
You gasped, spun again towards the furs covering your bed. He braced his arm around your middle and pushed you down, but it was thrilling, not terrifying as when Smalljon did it. You giggled softly as he touched you, using nothing more than the barest trace of his roughened fingers up and down your spine to waken every pleasured nerve in your body. He made you twist and arch and mewl, just with his fingers, and when he chuckled so low to himself, your thighs squeezed together. 

  
Pulling you up to your knees with the arm still braced around you, Tormund yanked you against his chest and started using his lips instead of his fingertips, the coarseness of his beard sending sparks shooting through you. It was more pleasure than you’d ever experienced in dreams or by your own hands, and you knew it was nothing, still. 

  
“I would look at you, Tormund,” you breathed uneasily, arching up toward his body before bending it like a bow again. His fingers moved to tease your belly with the same sort of gentle touches he’d given your back moments earlier, and you groaned. “Tormund—”

  
“Aye,” he said, hot in your ear, tearing a whole new ripple of pleasure through your body. “And you will, lass. I want to look in your eyes when I make you come.” He didn’t move you again for a while, though, but your sense of time was weakened, as was your will, your self-control, even your pride, but it was good. It was safe to lose those things, with Tormund. 

  
You willed yourself to relax your mind and mindlessly gripped your furs until what seemed like hours of electricity had passed and Tormund was rolling you onto your back. He was already grinning at the fog of pleasure in your eyes and the sly smirk on your face. You attempted to sit up on your elbows, but he simply pushed you back down into the furs. “What will you have me do, Tormund?”

  
“You need do nothing, Y/N.” He seemed to consider something for a moment, then kissed your lips the first time. “Just let me.”

  
“I don’t want you to have to do everything.”

  
He kissed you again, massaging your chest as he did so. “If I got any harder, I might grow worried. Have you ever felt yourself wet before?”

  
You winked at him, playful. “More times than I could count.”

  
For a moment, he seemed to falter. “Show me, and I’ll worship you like the old gods until I die.”

  
Snickering, you nodded and felt your skin flush. He backed away, standing before the bed, looking not like a wildling warrior, but a child opening a gift. His obvious arousal and fervent nods of approval made it easier than you would have guessed to trace your fingers through the slick petals between your legs. You moved them in circles and flicked them up and down, but before you had the chance to build up any genuine pressure, Tormund pried your knees further apart and yanked your body down to the foot of the bed. He touched you there now, gently pushing your hand out of the way, and you looked him in the eyes, smirking like a demon, as you curled your tongue against your fingers.

  
His mouth fell open. His breathing became rough, and he looked almost troubled, for a moment.

  
“Tormund?” You hooked your leg behind his back and pulled him toward you.  
  


Without pause, he began to undress. “You said I could fuck you as much as I wished before the Long Night comes.”

  
You nodded, trying very hard not to look down. “Aye. I did.”

  
“I want to do more things to you than there are names for,” he growled. “But I can’t do them all now. I have to feel you inside now.”

  
You smiled up at the ceiling, genuine happiness and heat pooling in your belly. “You have until the end of it all. We’ll name them all.”

  
“For fuck’s sake, Y/N, all this talk and you won’t look at my cock?”

  
“It just feels impolite.”

  
He took your hand, and you gasped when he put it on himself. Your curious fingers wanted to feel, and closed around him, but you could look no further down than his eyes and chest. “I’m no longer a maiden.”

  
He gave a short nod. “Aye. But you’re no man’s wife.”

  
“That being said, is this going to. . .fit?”

  
Tormund smiled, a mix of warmth and amusement illuminated by the fire’s light. “I won’t hurt you. I couldn’t.”

  
“I know,” you whispered. Your hand slowly withdrew and eventually found his arm. “Show me.”

  
He was looking down, between you, and gave you a bit of a shock when he pushed two of his fingers inside. He moved them without ever looking away from his actions. “You’re lovely everywhere.”

  
“Wh—”

  
“I didn’t mean to surprise you. If a man doesn’t touch you to tell if you’re ready, kick him in the nuts and leave him.” 

  
When you felt him slot his member against you, you pressed your back flat against the furs. It was what you’d learned to do, to brace yourself. When Tormund pushed inside you, though, there was no pain, and it was achingly slow. He looked both lost and concentrated, and you wanted to get your hands on his body so badly. You were aware of the size of him but comfortable all the same; your inner walls contracted around him and he finally groaned, himself, leaning over you, kissing your skin. 

  
“Breathe,” he whispered, lips still caressing you, and you obeyed, never realising that you’d stopped at all. His hands went to control your hips, and his moved with finesse and fluidity, but his own breathing had become a stuttered pant. He wouldn’t take his eyes from yours. Tormund bit his lip and cursed. “How are you doing it?”

  
Your chest rose and fell with uneven rhythm. He’d done so much to you, you’d done so much to yourself, that reaching climax would be no marathon run. “I’m just. . .I can’t. . .”

  
“Don’t look away.” Tormund tilted your chin, then placed his hand on your cheek. “I want to see you. Y/N. . .”

  
A soft shout left you, and it took all your will not to close your eyes from the force of the beautiful waves cresting over and over inside of you. You clasped your hand over his and gazed back at him, stricken as he was awestruck. He growled deep and you moved quick to keep him from withdrawing.

  
“No, please,” you whispered hoarsely. “There’s moon tea.”

  
Tormund grasped your bed post so hard, so suddenly, you worried it might snap. He shouted again, slammed his hips into yours once more, and soon sank down above you. His sweat-beaded brow lay just below your collarbones, and you could feel his seed start to leave your body. 

Without thinking, really, but then not really minding, either, you wrapped your arm around his shoulders to keep him a while longer. You felt alive again, and not just living for those that loved you. It was a precious, precious feeling, and you wanted to hold onto it for as long as you could. In your arms was a wildling, a wild thing, the strongest and possibly kindest man you’d known all your years. “Tormund?”

  
He deep and guttural tones that emerged from his throat seemed an answer. 

  
“I would have you here every night that you’re in Winterfell,” you told him.

  
“Aye.” His voice was still somewhat distorted, deeper than usual. “I may never leave this shit-reeking place now.”

  
You laughed, rubbing your hand affectionately up and over his shoulder blades. “Are you well, dear Tormund?”

  
“You took it from the soul, woman.”

  
This time, you wisely laughed against your pillows. Enough noise had been made in your room this night, and it was better not to risk any more. 

  
He climbed off of you then and rolled onto his back beside you. “It wasn’t a joke. You may need to drink two cups o’ moon tea.”

  
“I’ll do what’s necessary,” you promised, finally drawing the sheets and furs up over you. You smiled at him warmly. “You can stay, if you like. The door is still locked, none will walk in to find you here. If you don’t feel like trudging off to your own bed.”

  
“I don’t feel like leaving you.” Tormund yanked you over to lay your head on his shoulder. “You’ve lost much. You needed a good lay, and someone to hear you. I need to stay.”

  
You nodded, but soon yawned, and a wave of fatigue washed over you anew. “Then you’ll stay. Goodnight, Tormund.”

  
“G’night, lass.”

  
Just before you fell asleep, you heard him call your name.

  
“Hm?” you grumbled.

  
“What’s your plan if you’re wrong about the world ending? What if the world doesn’t end and I still don’t want to leave yet?”

  
Tucking yourself in a little closer, you were asleep as soon as you shut your eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Your name: submit [What is this?](http://silencethroughwords.tumblr.com/readerinsert)

 

 

The next weeks were a blur of activity, but as they passed, the blur more often than not included a whirl of orange. In the days, you were trying. The dark feelings came back the morning after you spent the night with Tormund, threatening to swallow you whole again, and you wanted to stave them off as much as possible. Old Nan had, since birth, lectured you on the value of good deeds as a Lady, and now, perhaps, your good deeds could mean the most.

Many of the most vulnerable of the Free Folk now resided in Winter Town, along with Tormund’s best men and spearwives, so you spent much of your afternoons there, just trying. At first, the distrust was palpable, but, wisely, you’d asked Tormund to come with you, and his presence quickly eased the worst of the tension.

“They don’t know why you come there,” he explained on your trek back to the castle the first day. “A fine, highborn Lady paying them any mind. It doesn’t sit well. They think you look down on them, and they fear you may force them to leave.”

As the weeks passed, their trust in you grew stronger. It had much more to do with Tormund than your good deeds, and you couldn’t deny that. Tormund was their commander and leader, and he made it painfully clear that you weren’t to be touched or flirted with in the least. At first, you thought it innocent, until you heard the whispers.

_”Tormund’s tamed a wolf.”_

He was mere feet away, speaking to a grey-bearded man in a mixture of the Common Tongue and one of the tribal languages you didn’t know.

Their words caused you no shame. In fact, a warm tingle spread within you, knowing how others knew that you were his. When he finished his conversation and stepped closer to your side, you surreptitiously slipped your hand in his. He squeezed it, and you turned your head just slightly toward him. “Come with me.”

You walked slowly, just ahead of him, Tormund still rolling his thumb across your fingers. However leisurely your pace, inside your mind was racing, and a warmth hummed its way through you. You wanted to run, but things still must appear normal. Or, as normal as they could, with you and a wildling seemingly inseparable, now. What would Mother think?, you asked yourself. Your heart thumped even faster in youthful defiance; you loved Catelyn Stark, but she was no longer there to disagree with your choices.

Tormund grew wary once he realised you were leading him away from the East Gate. He squeezed your hand a bit tighter. “Y/N? Are you drunk already?”

Looking around yourself cautiously first, you grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him against the stone walls surrounding Winterfell, in a place unlikely to be noticed from the watchtowers and far enough away from Winter Town. It took some doing, because of the difference in your height, but you kissed him, hard and deep, moaned against his mouth, frantically pulled one of his hands up to touch your chest under your cloak.

“You  _are_  drunk.” He chuckled in his mischievous way and reached around to grab a handful of your ass. “Shouldn’t you be the one against the wall?”

“I’m not drunk,” you said breathlessly between frenzied kisses. Feeling suddenly starved for touch and for touching him, your daring grew to the size of the castle itself, and you placed your hand over the growing bulge between his legs. He hissed and blinked at you, puzzled, but looking quite happy for it, but for the moment, all else you could do was close your lust-filled eyes and drink from his lips again.

“One more step forward, and I won’t be able to help myself from throwing you to the damn ground and fucking you ‘til you can’t properly walk, lass,” he growled, his own eyes hazed.

You smirked up at him and stepped slowly back so that you no longer touched. He looked affronted by this loss and tried to follow, but you stepped out of the way again. You panted softly and listened to the sounds of Ghost and Rose, howling like the wild thing you knew yourself to be, now.

“Don’t walk away from me, woman,” Tormund said darkly, but you laughed throatily, knowing never to have fear of him.

“They say you’ve tamed a wolf, Tormund,” you said, your voice hoarse with wanton desire. Your eyes narrowed and your smirking grew wide. “But I don’t think you have, have you?”

In what felt like half a second, Tormund slammed you up against the storm walls, your wrists held high over your head with just one of his enormous hands. He lowered down enough to look in your eyes and send you into another frenzy. Tormund pressed even harder, no space between your bodies. “Now you fucked up, Lady Stark.” His breath fanned over your skin, and you lunged for him, but he held you fast. “Do you know what I would do with you, She-Wolf, if I had found you on your own, with no one there looking after you?”

“I can imagine,” you replied, arching your back.

“You think so,” he nodded. Another half second later and you were up on his shoulder, and he was on the move.

“Tormund. . .” You watched the scenery surrounding your home, the old trees, the thick brush, pass you by quickly, and smiled up at the emerging moon and twinkling early stars. You closed your eyes and drank up the feeling of freedom, of wildness in your heart, of being  _alive_.

Tormund put you on the ground in a copse of trees far enough from home, but close enough to add an extra pulse of thrill. He crouched down beside you and tugged your cloak over your shoulders. “Wildlings take women, Lady Stark.” He kissed you brutally now, fingernails sinking into your skin. “Like I took you now, and I never would’ve let you get away. I would take you to the village and show everyone how you’re mine only.”

“Did you take me, Tormund?” you whispered, gripping his hair and tugging. “I’ve taken  _you_. Just a well-placed word, just the right look, and you did exactly as I wanted.” You turned his head just enough to sigh in his ear. “I’ve played you like a sweet harp, you great ginger beast.”

“Then you’re not afraid, She- _Beast_?”

Just a gentle touch to his heart, and you shook your head. “Not of you, my Tormund.”

He chuckled down at you, pulling your dress up to your hips and squeezing red marks into the soft, pale skin there. His thumbs moved in careful circles on your flesh, and you knew it was meant to anchor your fantasy in reality. It was meant as a tender signal that, no matter how he might behave or speak, you were safe from all harm. Too bad that he wasn’t. When he touched you at the apex of your thighs, his hands were anything but rough, but still, you hit him, clocking him on the jaw, just as he’d shown you how to protect yourself.

You were no match for Tormund at all, however, so you knew you hadn’t hurt him, and he looked like a madman, grinning so wide at you for assaulting him. He laughed low and loud and jerked you around so quickly, you gasped and lost your breath. His weight was bearing down on you.

“Get on your hands and knees,” he growled, and you could hear him fiddling with his clothes. As soon as you obeyed, he was upon you, sliding himself inside, bruising your hips with his grip. “You make a sound,” he warned, “and I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.”

Sharp little stones dug into the flesh of your hands and you made as much noise as you pleased, heeding his false threats none. “You don’t want a quiet little mouse,” you managed, voice changing pitch from the force of his thrusts. You glanced back over your shoulder and smirked at him yet again. “You want a free, wild woman.”

Tormund tugged on your braid and made you curse. Your elbows buckled under the pressure, and suddenly, you could feel it. Sounding much more tame, now, you called his name, and he said yours, with more warmth than before. He was still seated deep inside when he spilled his seed, and released a string of curses that even made you blush.

When he turned you over, you were relaxed and gentle as a lamb. “You look worried, ginger.”

“Did I hurt you?” he asked. He sat next to you on the grass and started to look over your body, especially your hands and knees. Your left palm bled a little, and a look of guilt washed over him.

“Tormund,” you touched his face with your other hand and laughed. “Dear man, it is nothing. Just a sharp rock. I didn’t notice, I swear.” You tugged softly at his beard. “You made me see beautiful colours behind my eyelids. I can still feel you.”

He lifted one of his eyebrows and pointed at his bruised jaw. “I can still feel you, too.”

“I shouldn’t have.”

“Oh, but you  _should’ve_.”

You rolled your eyes while he worked, righting your clothes. You looked down at your dress and barked a laugh. “If someone sees us walking back, which they will, they’ll know exactly what we’ve been up to. Jon will be off his tits.”

“I’ll tell them you fell down a mini-ravine,” he said. “Angered a crow defending its young. I rescued you, of course, from the crow.” He picked you up, rather than help you to stand, and set you carefully on your feet. “I mean it, Y/N, are you hurt?”

“No, you ridiculous man. I am hungry, though. I need to get dressed again. We’re supposed to dine with Jon, remember?” You drew your cloak around yourself and started dusting off the fur.

Tormund laughed deep from his belly. “Do you think he’ll still be pouting over what I’ve done to his little sister?”

“I should say I sincerely hope that he will.” You smiled up at your lover as you began your way back to the East Gate. He stuck out his arm with a wink and you took it. “Look at you.”

“You’ve made a loyal servant of me, Lady Stark.”

“You are simply the worst sort of person.” You shook your head against him, adding in an affectionate nuzzle. Such a lovely walk under the moonlight. “Why do you insist on calling me that?”

Tormund pushed a low-hanging branch out of your way. “It gets a reaction out of you. It gets many reactions out of you, but I’ve never disliked one yet.”

“Oh? Remember last month, when Lord Manderly got all red in the face over you not calling him Lord? What did you say to him? ‘Go get fucked, you bug-eyed, buggering weasel?’”

He chuckled and nodded. “Jon really was off his tits, then.”

You pulled him to a stop and kissed him again. “You know it doesn’t matter, don’t you?”

“We’ve had our words about it. The boy is my friend.” Tormund assured you. He looked at your lips. “You do like to kiss.”

“And you don’t?”

“If I like it when you hit me, how do you think I favour your kisses?”

“You still make me blush,” you said with some amazement. The gate was in sight now. The two of you were in plain view to any guardsman, but you remained entwined with Tormund.

“And in more places than one.”

“Oh!” You began to tug on his arm. “Come, we have to get to my chambers. There isn’t much time left before we’re expected, and I have something for you.”

Tormund tilted his head from side to side, looking his usual self. “I believe I already took it, just now.”

“There’s no time for your jokes, Ginger Giant. Come!” You picked up speed and wound up running through the Yard with him, laughing like a bell, struck by the knowledge that you should absolutely never, ever do such a thing, but shrugging it off as you had everything else. There would be no one left to care before long, so why not live before the gift of life was taken away? When you reached your chamber doors, you turned to Tormund and placed your hand over his eyes. “Keep them closed or no dessert for you, tonight.”

“What a terrible threat,” he jested, but when you pulled your hand away, he had his eyes clenched shut, humouring you.

You guided him inside, greeted by the warm fire, and saw that his gift had been left exactly where you’d asked that it be left, in your absence. “Keep your eyes closed,” you reminded him, guiding him now to his chair. “Do you remember telling me that you don’t know when your nameday is?”

Tormund scoffed. “Nameday.”

“It’s a very special day! Mine will be soon, and there’ll be a feast, but that’s beside the point. I asked you when it was because I wanted to celebrate your life on that day, but you went on and on about how no child is named before the age of two beyond the Wall, har har har.”

“Celebrate my  _life_?” Tormund scoffed even louder.

You clucked at him and sat in his lap. “Your life is precious to me, so yes, it is something to celebrate, and on your nameday, the people who love you give you presents to celebrate your life.”

He grew quiet and still. “Y/N.”

You kissed his forehead. “I decided that if I couldn’t celebrate the day you were born, I could still give you a gift befitting all the years you’ve lived in this world. The perfect gift for what’s to come.”

“Your minge.”

Now you slapped him. “I told you not to use that word, you saucy boy. It’s not my body. That is yours always, and so is this.” You stood, you heaved, and grunted, holding up his present. “You can open your eyes now, Ginger Giant.”

When Tormund’s eyes opened, so did his mouth. His arms fell down to his sides and he shook his head. “Oh, Y/N. . .”

You beamed at him, holding up the black war hammer. “This is Tall-Talker, just like you. It’s very fucking heavy, please take it.” Your arms sagged. “Please, Tormund, quickly!”

He stood from his seat and took it easily from your hands and continued to stare at it. You tried anxiously to read his face, and spoke unsurely. “You’re a king, Tormund. You’re King Beyond the Wall, now. I know it as well as anyone. They’ve chosen you to replace Mance Rayder, and you deserve it. You are the strongest and bravest man I’ve ever known, as honourable as any good king, and now you have a weapon befitting a king.” You knew he’d never held a sword that wasn’t stolen from a dead man. You watched him trace his finger over the detail carved in the handle, so carefully, as though they might be wiped away. “Back during the war my father fought, he was the best of friends with King Robert Baratheon. King Robert was not the best man of all, and he was hardly a good king, but he was a good friend, and he was well-liked. He was a fair person. He was also very tall, like you, and he loved to fight more than anything, like you. Father told me that King Robert fought with a mighty war hammer, and he told me that he himself could not lift it. Only Robert could handle such a large weapon, and he  _crushed_  his enemies, including Rhaegar Targaryen, the man who stole my aunt Lyanna.” Your lover remained silent. You cleared your throat. “This is not the same war hammer, of course, but I went through some of Maester Luwin’s old records for descriptions and took what I found to the smithy.”

He looked up at you, finally, and you could only describe it as touching. He lifted his brow and pointed to the engravings. “These are. . .”

You beamed again and nodded. “Aye, they are. I asked you if I could draw the runes on the gold bands on your arms. You showed me your favourite, and those were the ones I gave to the smiths. There’s something else, Tormund, but you must keep this between us, aye?”

He nodded slowly.

You sighed in anticipation. “It is black for a reason. It’s almost entirely made of steel, but this, here. . .” You pointed at the speared claw of the hammer. “This is dragonglass.”

Tormund looked absolutely overcome. “Y/N. . .”

“I cannot fight in this war,” you admitted. “But I. . .You are a great warrior with limited tools, Tormund, think of what you’ll do with this. You’ll be prepared for a White Walker, should you meet one, and Tall-Talker can smash right through a wight. I measured your arms while you slept to make sure it would be the perfect length, the perfect weight, the perfect balance. And it’s yours.”

He looked down at the maul again, gripped it tight and gave it a gentle swing, away from you. “I’ve never been given a gift before.”

Your face flushed and you wrung your hands. “Oh. Well, now you have. You may not give it back. Your Lady commands it.” You winked at him and laughed weakly.

“When I’m gone to war, you’ll be with me,” he said, still unable to look at you. “You may be small, but in this way, you protect me, like my fellow soldiers. I don’t know as many words as you, and the ones I do know, I use half as well, but you have done me more honour than. . .I cannot even say. I’m no king, Y/N Stark, but I will use this weapon to bash in the heads of each of your enemies. If you command me to take it, then I will.”

The words moved you to your core, and you stepped up immediately and threw your arms around him. You squeezed your eyes tightly closed to prevent any errant tears and kissed his neck. “If I’m your Lady, you’re my King,” you whispered. You heard Tall-Talker clatter to Tormund’s chair, and he lifted you up. Just before your lips met, a heavy pounding came from the doors.

“Y/N,” Jon called out. “Y/N, can you please climb off Tormund and come to the Great Hall? There’s word from the Dreadfort and the Wall.”

“Seven hells,” you whispered against Tormund’s lips. “Coming!”

Tormund was much quieter than he would normally be, throughout the meeting-meal. You thought it was a little ridiculous the use a room that could seat five hundred men to seat twenty. You sat beside your family, further away from Tormund, but you noticed. As was usual, you and Sansa were consulted little and expected to say even less, and, frankly, you found it terribly dull. While most hardly touched their plates while Jon spoke, you eventually quit pretending to care and cut your meat. Sansa kept trying to step on your toes under the table, but you subtly elbowed your sister for her to leave you be. The talk was saddening. The talk was of war, and, as you ate and drank the wine, the dark feelings swirled all around you. Dread snaked up your arm and bit down on your neck. The little glimmers of hope you had looked for slowly died like the last embers of a fire.

“Y/N,” Sansa said softly, placing her hand on your arm. “Y/N, what’s wrong?”

You were suddenly aware that all eyes were on you, and the wheezing breaths catching in your chest.

“She’s choking!” Jon stood so quickly his chair fell back and stood behind you, tucking his arms around your belly and squeezing so hard, you saw white.

“No, Jon, no! It’s her breathing sickness!” Sansa cried, pulling on your brother’s arm. Soon, it was her arms around you, leading you through the Great Hall and toward the Maester’s Tower. “Try to take deeper breaths, Y/N. You are safe. You are  _home_. We love you. Jon loves you so much, he almost made you vomit in front of everyone. That’s so silly, right?”

You struggled to breathe correctly all the way, though Sansa walked you slowly. You tried a few times to convince her to leave you, but she refused, tears emerging from her Tully blue eyes, and causing her to weep felt even worse.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” Sansa whimpered, holding your arm so tight. “I don’t want to lose you. You’re my only older sister. You cannot grow sick and die.”

“I won’t,” you swore, your voice strained. In the Maester’s Tower, you let Sansa sit beside you and tucked your arm around her shoulders while you waited for the maester to prepare your remedy. “Do not cry, Sansa. I will be fine. I just need to rest, is all.”

“You shouldn’t be going into Town every day,” Sansa said. “You must be kinder to your body. You aren’t supposed to walk too far or breathe in unclean air.”

“It is my duty to care for the residents of Winter Town,” you insisted. “And I am fine. I have outgrown the worst of the sickness long ago. It’s only now and then, and it isn’t so bad, Sansa my sweet. Aunt Lysa had it, too. It runs in families.”

“Here we are, Lady Stark,” said the kindly old maester, his chain rattling as he walked toward you and your sister with the remedy. “You must breathe the vapors deep, my dear Lady, but you should do so in your chambers, where you can rest.”

“Y/N?” Jon called. He and Tormund emerged from the darkness, looking quite anxious. “Is she all right, maester?”

“Why is everyone acting like I am a sickly infant?” you wondered aloud.

“You scared us.” There was Jon’s pout. It was legendary, and you could never be cross with him when he pouted. “I remember when you were a girl, and you would be ill for days sometimes. I thought you were going to die at the table, of course I’m worried.”

“Thank you, maester,” you said to the old man, and rose to your feet. “Thank you for your concern, brother. I’m sorry for spurning you. You may have cracked a rib, but it was love that made you do it.”

Jon laughed and shook his head. “If you’re feeling better tomorrow, I’ll let you swing one of the training swords at me, much as you like. Promise me you won’t sit up drinking tonight, Y/N.”

“She won’t,” Tormund said.

Jon didn’t even clench his jaw, this time. “Watch after her for me?”

Tormund nodded shortly, then crossed the room and plucked you up in his arms. “Come on, you. To bed.”

“Tormund, leave her dressed,” Sansa called, and he scoffed.

“You haven’t got to carry me,” you said as he carefully steered down the stairway.

“No arguing. You scared me near shitless. I never took my eyes off you, and all at once, you started making that horrible sound. What is breathing sickness?” The lines on Tormund’s face denoted his apprehension.

“Nothing, nothing.” You shook your head and lifted the little satchel the maester gave you. “This makes it completely better. Jon didn’t disband the meeting, did he?”

“Aye, he did, quick as he could. We meet again tomorrow.”

“I’ll be better by then.”

Tormund laughed darkly. “You won’t be going anywhere tomorrow. You’ll have your ass in bed with a maid watching you.”

“What? That is mad, Tormund. I’m not an invalid, and I’m hardly ill. My uncle, the Blackfish, hid his breathing sickness from everyone but his closest family for almost his entire life, and he lived to be sixty-three years old! He was a fine man and a respected warrior, and he had breathing sickness. That’s where I get it from, the damn Tullys.” You ducked your head when Tormund walked you over the threshold of your rooms.

“Tully, Stark, hex, it doesn’t matter. What is it? What does it do?” He placed you by your desk, where you pointed to the equipment you needed. He looked on, disquieted, as you set up the glass and bronze pieces Maester Luwin had made for you many years ago. On the bronze plate, you emptied the satchel of medicine, and lit a little fire beneath it. “What are you doing?”

“Breathing sickness makes your airways tighter, that’s all. The vapors from this mixture make them normal again. It’s no big thing, Tormund.” You leaned close as the thick white cloud began to billow and breathed in deeply, as you’d been taught. “It doesn’t smell terrific, but it works.”

“Smells a lot better than the rest of Winterfell.” Tormund skulked around behind you while you administered your medication, muttering occasionally and touching your hair. “You should have told me.”

“About what? I don’t think about this, Ginger Giant. The last time I had an attack, I was seventeen and Smalljon was still a kind man. He fussed about it, too, carried me to the maester—”

“Don’t tell me that!” Tormund snapped.

You smirked on your next inhale. “You’re jealous of my husband? He wasn’t even my husband then, just a caring friend.”

“I told you I was jealous! I’ve told you more than once. Of course I’m jealous of the man you married, with your idiotic customs and ways. He owned you like a slave, and treated you as one.” Tormund glanced at Tall-Talker.

“I did not love him and he did not love me.” You inhaled one last time, deep, and sat back in your seat. The medicine always made you a bit dizzy. You fanned your face. “He married me out of pure spite for Jon, the idiot. Ass dick, cunt nose. . .”

“At least you’re sounding like yourself again. Come on, to bed.” He lifted you out of the chair and set you on the edge of your bed. By now, he knew exactly how to remove your clothing, and it was a little humorous to see. Tormund Giantsbane, carefully removing a lady’s delicate dress. . .

“Will you still stay?” you asked.

“Still? What do you mean?”

“Well, I hardly think you’ll be fucking me again tonight, treating me as though I’m made of glass and paper.”

“Always happy to hear what you truly think of me.” He pulled your gown away and draped it over your changing screen for your maids to pick up later. “Are you cold?”

“I’ll have you know that all my thoughts of you are good,” you said with half-hearted indignation. The bed felt lovely, though, and you considered it quite thoughtful of him to have carried you all that way. You chanced a smile. “I’ll be good for the maids, then, as long as you’ll come and see me. Now get naked, I should at least get to  _look_  at you.”

He walked around the bed without protest, stripping his outermost layer. Underneath, he wore the black mail of a dead ranger, and those ancient gold bands, up and down his arms. He narrowed his eyes in thought when he sat next to you. “Y/N?”

“Yes, Ginger Giant?”

Tormund placed his wide hand over your belly, as he was wont to at day’s end, and drummed his fingers. A few moments of comfortable silence passed, and then he started to work one of the gold bands from his right arm. With little finesse, he took your hand and eased the ring all the way up.

“Wh-what are you doing?” you asked, looking from him to your arm and back again.

“You said that your loved ones give you gifts on your nameday,” he explained.

“It’s not my nameday!”

“Neither is it mine, but you gave me the finest weapon ever held by one of the Free Folk.”

You shook you head vehemently and tried to pull the gold band off. “Tormund, truly, I cannot possibly take this. These belong to your family. Your father gave them to you, and his father to him, and his father before him. . .”

He closed his big hand around it and quelled your fretting. “You may not give it back.”

“Tormund. . .” But you knew you’d lost. You pulled your arm away enough so that you could look at it. Clearly, he and his kinsmen had taken care of them as well as they could. “Tormund, I’m absolutely honoured and  _humbled_  by this gift, but why?”

He lay beside you and kissed your forehead, clearly admiring his gold band on your pale skin. “Because your king commands it.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, ~*some people*~ are still alive because FITE ME. Second of all, I have always admired Tormund’s honesty and how he lays everything out on the table. 

Your name: submit [What is this?](http://silencethroughwords.tumblr.com/readerinsert)

 

 

 

You opened your eyes and found yourself sitting in a chair in a small room. You blinked, and creeping dread captured your heart. The banner hanging on the wall. . .

“Mother!”

You stood at once, heart now pounding for the shouts through the halls.

“Mother, Mother  _please_!”

Running through the door of your chambers, you began to panic.

Smalljon had Rickon by the arm, dragging him like a dead body. “She isn’t your mother, you bloody fool! Stupid fucking boy!”

“No!” You flew to slam your fists against your husband’s back. You pushed and shoved until he turned around. “Let him go! Let go of him, he’s just a little boy!”

“Then control the boy!” he shouted in your face. He was almost as big as the Greatjon, almost the biggest man you’d ever seen, and you were no taller than Mother.

You hated how he made you retreat, made you cower, made the hairs stand up on the back of your neck, but you stood between him and Rickon. Your youngest brother, only nine, wrapped his arms around your legs and wept into your skirts. Without looking away from your husband’s eyes, you reached back to touch the boy’s hair. “He’s confused. It isn’t his fault, Lord Umber. Tell me what he’s done, and I’ll see he’s disciplined properly. You’re much too big for such a small matter.”

“Mother,  _please_!” Rickon cried again. “I want to go home, Mother, please.”

“Do you hear this?” Smalljon sneered cruelly at you, stooping over you. “He wants to go  _home_.”

“And he also thinks I’m his mother, but he’s wrong on both counts. It’s not his fault that he’s not all there. If Ned were to chew too loudly, it would be acceptable for me to start to drag him on the floor?” you demanded.

“Don’t talk about my boy,” Smalljon uttered threateningly.

“Then don’t hurt mine!” You shouted far too loudly, and now, as Smalljon crept closer, you were truly afraid.

“Shut him up. Shut him up now!”

“Ricky!” You clenched your eyes shut against your husband and tried to pull Rickon up. “Darling, quiet now. Everything is all right, my sweet. Ssh, hush now. You’re upsetting Father.” In truth, it sickened you every time you had to refer to Smalljon as such, and it sickened you to use it to manipulate Rickon, and you never would, were it not for his safety. He quieted within seconds, and slowly stood behind you.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I’m sorry, Father.” He shook like a leaf.

You stroked your hand through his curly mop of hair and smiled kindly. “Everything is all right, darling. Go and play with Shaggydog.”

He sniffled, then ran the opposite way, leaving you with an angry Smalljon. You looked up at him again, tried to breathe steadily. “I am sorry, Lord Umber, for whatever he did, and I am sorry for what I have done. He isn’t well. I’ll send the maester.”

Smalljon pressed you up against the wall, his hands hard and unforgiving. “Do you know what I think, dear wife?”

You shook your head, eyes closed again. “No, husband, I don’t.”

“Y/N.”

“I said I don’t.”

Big hands took your shoulders, and you were screaming.

“No! No, stop! Get away, don’t touch me!” you cried, pushing the hands away.

“Y/N!”

You opened your eyes again, and everything was changed. You were safe in your bedchambers, tucked into your furs like a babe, with the aching knowledge of Rickon’s death and the touch of Smalljon still burning your skin. You blinked again, and saw the man you’d been fighting was Tormund.

“Oh, shit.” You sat up and shook your head at his troubled face. “No, no, I’m sorry. Please. Forgive me.”

Loud pounding came to your door. “Lady Stark! Lady Stark!”

“I was only sleeping!” You called to the guard. “Please, I am safe and sound.” After a few seconds, footsteps faded away. You sighed and frowned up at Tormund. “You probably think I’m mad.”

He shook his head, a darkness polluting his strong features. “You were dreaming about him.”

“Not pleasantly.”

“I know.” Tormund pulled his fur coat over you and tucked you against his shoulder. “You’re having those dreams more often.”

“I am  _sorry_ , Tormund. You don’t have to stay the night in bed with me, I’ve told you.” You tried to smile, tried to shift the black mood. “You only have to fuck me properly, remember?”

It only made his face more sour. “Tell me.”

Realising there was no avoiding it this time, you sighed and lay back against your pillows. “I dreamt I was at Last Hearth, and Smalljon was bullying Rickon. His mind was addled by everything that had happened to us and our family, and, by the time he turned eight, he had convinced himself that I was Mother. It just made things worse, the poor love. It made Smalljon angrier, and killed my heart. I was standing up for Rickon in my dream. Smalljon didn’t like that. Tormund, you’d never seen me in your life and only saw Rickon the day he was killed. There was nothing you could have done.”

“I know that.” He said it, but you suspected he couldn’t feel it. He sat beside you, bare-chested and scarred, looking down at his hands. Hands that had stabbed Smalljon Umber’s face. You grabbed one of them and pulled it to your chest.

“You owe me lessons today,” you reminded him. “You must take me to Winter Town. I’ve got a gift for Ser Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun. Did I get that right?”

“What lessons, why Winter Town, and what about Wun Wun?” Tormund gracelessly threw back the sheets and furs to look at you.

“My dear Ginger Giant, I had hoped you remembered. My only use in life has been what I learned from Maester Luwin. Osha said I was good as a wood witch with herbs and healing. Of course, I can’t say whether that’s true or not, but when the Valemen marched on Last Hearth and gave me the wonderful news, I swore an oath to treat any man or woman who fought for the Starks. Imagine my surprise when I rode into Winterfell and found a giant. A real giant, not like  _you_  giant. Wun Wun. He was barely hanging on by a thread, and he looked like a pincushion with all those arrows sticking out of him. Jon convinced him to let the healers help him, and we did. I think he’s wonderful. I’d always wanted to see a giant, but really, he’s marvelous, not a spectacle. All the stories Old Nan told of giants eating bulls whole and mixing blood in their porridge, and Wun Wun won’t even eat another creature’s flesh.”

“What in the hell does that have to do with a gift?”

You laughed, completely unashamed of your naked body on which his eyes feasted. “He’s getting well again. And we owe him so much more than we can afford to give. I spoke with Edd. You know, Jon’s friend who’s ‘not’ Lord Commander? I sent him a raven asking for the bow left by one of the giants slain at the battle of Castle Black. Don Goh? I asked him for the bow, and requested ballista be made by the smiths here. Now, Wun Wun can arm himself and shoot back.”

Tormund smiled and bent his neck to kiss you. “You won’t stop until you’ve armed everyone from beyond the Wall, will you? I’m proud you’ve done this for him, She-Beast. You’re the very best of us.”

“I thought it best to lead with that.” You smiled back, but cast your eyes down. “I also have to tell you I’m leaving Winterfell for a time.” The room fell quiet and still. You felt your lover shift on the feather mattress, felt him gazing down at you.

“. . .What?” His big hand practically covered the span of your belly. “That’s buggering nonsense. You’re a Stark of Winterfell. Where the fuck else do you belong?”

“I’ll be riding for Last Hearth—”

He scoffed loudly. “The fuck you are.”

“My father taught me to honour my duties. I’m not very good at that, unfortunately, which is why I’m commonly referred to as ‘The Wildling’s Whore’—”

“Who said that?” he shouted. When you reached for his hand, he snatched it away.

You straightened your back against the headboard. “Listen to me, Ginger Giant. I refuse to stop being with you because you make me happiest and chances are there won’t be any of us left in a year, so what does my duty to the House of Stark matter in the long term? I don’t need to marry or bear sons. I’ll never have the chance, or, if I did, I would bring a child into a world where. . .where all the evils of the known world are coming for him. But I do have a son, and he lives at Last Hearth.”

When Tormund finally looked at you, his gaze was hard enough to stay your next words. He stood from the bed you’d been sharing and started to pace the length of the foot of the bed. His shoulders gathered tension, as did his brow, and when he looked at you again, his eyes were of dark ice. “You gave him a son.”

You jumped when he shoved a trunk out of his way and knocked over a screen. “It isn’t—”

“You didn’t want to, I know.” Tormund held on to the edge of the long table, his arms shaking. “Smallcock Umber made you take his seed and you hid the little boy to protect him from the invading forces. You’ve kept him secret to keep anyone from murdering him. Bring him here, Y/N. He’ll be ours. I’ll raise him.”

“I paid the price of  _not_  giving Smalljon sons in blood, I promise you, I’ve never borne a child for him or any man,” you said quickly, fighting the stinging strangle in your heart. “Little Lord Umber, little Ned. He’s no one left but advisors and a maester, and you know how many people have called for his head on a pike. He’s only a boy, and he faces so much now, and I broke my vows of marriage, but I won’t break my oath to family. What kind of woman would I be to leave her son alone at the end of times, surrounded by his enemies?”

Tormund appeared relieved, but it was still overshadowed by anger. “You don’t belong in that place where he beat you and forced you. It is a cursed place. Nothing good will come of this, and the Umber is not your son, he is not your child, you are not responsible. His people are responsible for him.”

“I agree that I don’t belong there, never want to lay eyes on it again, but I must see to Ned, and then I will return. I didn’t mean forever. When the Valemen came, we didn’t know what it meant, what would happen. I kept Ned with me while his father went to battle because he was still only a boy, an innocent, and he was so frightened to see the cavalry. He thought he was going to die, that I would die.” You kissed his crooked knuckles. “He’s been brave, he’s done well, but I’ve gotten a raven from him. So I’ll go.”

“I don’t like it.” Tormund closed his fist around your hand. “If you think you’ll go without me, you’ve hit your head on that board too many times.”

“I can’t take you,” you whispered gently. “It’s Last Hearth.”

He scowled. “All of a sudden you feel shame for sucking my cock?”

Now you frowned and grabbed him rough by his shoulder. Eye to eye, you spoke softly. “Never. If we live to the end of the week or the end of this century,  _never_. Ned is a boy of ten years old and he’s suddenly Lord of a House that despises the Free Folk. As I’ve thanked you for so very much these months, you  _did_  kill his father, and he’s terrified of you. If I had my way and took you by my side, it would create nothing but trouble for a sweet little boy in a shite situation. I have to be cautious in this, Tormund, I must be wise.”

“And what if it’s a trick? What if somebody’s slit the boy’s throat and lures you back to kill you and your claim on Last Hearth? Send for the boy and bring him to me, I’ve no son anymore. If you claim he’s yours, I’ll still raise him, better than Smallcock. I can teach him to hunt, to shoot, to kill, make him strong, make him a real Northerner.” Tormund’s voice rose with every other word, and each brought a fresh pang to your heart. It was only the second time he’d mentioned his son to you.

“Ginger—”

“Stop.”

“Do you think me a fool? Dolorous Edd sent four men of the Night’s Watch along with Wun Wun’s bow. They will accompany me.” The argument was twisting your stomach. You had known it was coming, of course, but it threatened to tear your nerves to pieces. You longed so desperately for the easiness between you to return, and to speak no more of sons. “And before you say it, no, I wouldn’t rather have a crow with me than you, but when the people of Last Hearth see Lady Stark—Umber—riding with brothers of the Night’s Watch, that will increase their faith in the North and ease their minds about Ned. They are some of Edd’s trusted men and no one who betrayed Jon.”

“You know they are rapists, don’t you? You know what they could do to you, these strange men you don’t know, these fuckers I’ve been fighting and killing since I was a lad? They’re rapists, killers, they’re cunts, they’re not  _me_.” Tormund was shouting now, inches from your face.

Your shoulders drooped and your head lowered. “Then you tell me what to do.”

“No,” he snapped.

“Tell me what would make you feel like I’m coming back in one piece and not pieces.” You gripped his arm tight, but kept your voice low and soft. “I want to respect your wishes, but you have to be willing to make concessions. I’m not done with you, and you aren’t done with me, that’s fairly obvious, or you wouldn’t be so angry with me. I want to come home. To you. So, please.”

Tormund chewed on his lip for a moment, then sighed and drew you against him. “All right.”

At the end of a fortnight of traveling home, you saw the fires of the watchtowers of Winterfell. Pyp and Grenn flanked you on either side, Ser Davos, the wonderful, abiding man, rode in front, and Wun Wun strode casually to your right, his bow at his back. It became downright embarrassing when Tormund insisted on having Ser Davos involved, but, looking back, the inclusion of Wun Wun shouldn’t have surprised you.

It had taken a while for the point to get across to the giant, just why you, Pyp, Grenn, and Tormund had wheeled a barrow in front of him with the ancient bow inside. When Wun Wun had looked to Tormund and the man nodded, you smiled again, rather nervously, and did a curtsey before him.

“I am grateful,” you spoke slowly, as Tormund had instructed, and pointed to the bow. “This belonged to Don Goh. I had it brought here for you, and look! Arrows fit for you to shoot!”

Wun Wun had looked at you a moment, then reverentially picked up the bow once belonging to his kinsman. He fingered the string, tested its tautness, and finally looked again to you after placing it on his back and standing straight. “Stark.”

You could certainly count that as one of the greatest things that had ever happened to you.

Later, after arrangements had already been made, you’d stayed behind in Winter Town with Tormund late after checking on Karsi’s girls, and you heard him speak to Wun Wun.

“If they charge, kill ‘em all. If they turn traitor after welcoming her in, kill ‘em all  _slow_  for me, old friend.”

By now, however grateful you had been for the enduring assistance of the giant, the Onion Knight, and the two lovable twats Jon still called brothers, your ass was killing you from riding so long, and if you never heard Ser Davos speak about which knots were best for sailing slow again, it would be too soon. Because Wun Wun was conspicuous even from a distance, the gates of the castle opened and warm, glowing light poured out. Getting closer now, you saw the shadow of a four-legged beast, and soon heard her soothing howl. You managed to hide your tears from your travel companions and had them dried before climbing down from your horse, but coming home had never had such meaning, even before.

Standing in the courtyard was your brother and sister, but you got on your knees on the cobblestones to welcome Rose in your arms. She was downright playful even, pawed at your legs to tempt you into coming to play, licking your arms and face. You laughed through it all, your arms loose around her neck, and scratched her ears before standing.

“Always nice to see you prefer her to us,” Jon said with a tired smile. You hugged him next, then Sansa, sharing the wolf slobber and your love for them freely.

“I’m happy to be home,” you told them, and really, you were. So damn happy just to see your siblings still alive, again. Ser Davos passed by with little more than warm regards and a smile for you all, fatigued himself and aching to be in his own bed. You turned to the rest. “Wun Wun, I am grateful to you yet again. You may rest in the tower, if you wish, you are welcome here as long as I live. Pyp, Grenn, we’ve talked about this, and I’ve already written Edd, you’re staying to rest yourselves and your horses a few days.”

Grenn clapped your shoulder amiably. “Yes, m’lady. We are ever at your service.”

You rolled your eyes at his light mockery and snickered. “Don’t keep the whores waiting, then.”

Sharing a few more words with your sweet Sansa, the men and giant dispersed, Jon taking his brothers for a late meal and decent ale.

“How was it, then?” she asked, holding your hands in hers.

You smiled. “It will never cease to be so sad and so funny that  _I’m_  the eldest sister, and you dwarf me. Oh, that was an asshole thing to say, right?”

“I would marry Lord Tyrion again in a heartbeat, if it meant never coming here to Ramsay. He was kind. I should have seen that for what it was in King’s Landing. And no one can help that you’re short, sister.”

The two of you hugged again, and you kissed her cheek. “It’s late, dear sweet. You should go and rest.”

She smirked as she turned, still looking over her shoulder at you. “You just want to find the wine and Tormund,” she said in a sing-song voice.

“He’s here?” Your own voice was incredulous. “He’s back from the Gift? Already? How?”

“You were gone for some time, Lady Stark.”

Your heart soared instantly and you could hear he was only a few yards away, behind you. Sansa gave her sweet, soft smirk for being so clever with you and left for her rooms quickly to give you privacy or to save herself from having to bear witness, you did not know.

When you turned to see your Ginger Giant, all the tension left your body, all the pains from such a long journey, and all you could feel was bubbling joy within. You laughed softly as Rose panted and circled around the two of you, still itching to play. “You look bloody naked without all those furs.”

He did, but it suited him so well. He was still so tall, so broad, so handsome, and your knees truly did wobble when he reached you and kissed you long and hard. You expected some raunchy retort or filthy words, but you were met with only more kisses until you could’ve begged to be taken then and there.

“Come with me,” he said when you’d stopped expecting words. You forced your eyes open only to see he was leading you away from your chambers, toward the godswood.

“Tormund,” you whined, “I would be so very in your debt if you could just to take me to bed, fuck me silly, and be there for breakfast in the morning.”

Ahead of you, he gave a raspy laugh, but that was all. When he felt you weren’t moving quickly enough, he’d tug on your arm, and he twice had to shoo Rose away before she made a noise as if offended and went off to hunt.

“I haven’t prayed in years,” you admitted as you stood before the little pond beside the heart tree. You touched the face carved there, tracing its features.

“I didn’t bring you here to pray, She-Wolf.”

You bounced on your feet, eyes curious when you turned back to him. “Why then?”

“Because I’ve had a bit too much to drink. Had a bit too much every night. No man can lie in the godswood, so you will believe me.” He stood over you now, making your heart pound within your chest. Canopied by the thick red leaves above, it felt almost like a secret place that only the two of you knew.

“I don’t think you are a liar, Tormund.”

He shook his head, and you could see the inebriation, a bit. He sat awkwardly on the ground and pulled you down to his lap, also a tad awkwardly. Gazing at each other, it dawned on you just how much you had missed him. You wanted to tell him, but Tormund put his hand on either side of your head and touched your foreheads together. “Shut up. I’m going to say a lot of things and I don’t want you to interrupt me with your big, beautiful mouth. Aye?”

You laughed softly. “Aye, you mad fool.”

“I hate when you say that the world will end. Hate it with all my guts. I know it could be true, but it seems like you don’t have any faith left in you at all, and I hate that. I hate knowing you’ll only stay with me because you think the world will end, so what the fuck does it matter if you’re fucking a wildling and not some buggering Lord? I hate that you convince yourself I’m sort of king so that it’s easier to lower yourself. I hated that you left, and hated you a bit for leaving. Hated that it was so easy, that you wouldn’t let me come. I didn’t fucking go to the fucking Gift. I trailed you, and when I saw it seemed safe, I came back and drank. Haven’t really stopped. Don’t interrupt. I hate you think that  _I_  can’t or shouldn’t keep you safe. I hate your fucking moon tea—I want babies.  _Your_  babies. Tiny little babies who’ve been kissed by fire, with the green eyes of a Stark—but you’d only give sons to a Lord, like Umber. I hate what you were taught a man is, and I hate that I don’t fit it right, so I’ll never be the man you want. I hate how ignorant you think I am. I hate that you hate goat’s milk.”

You blinked at him, not entirely sure how hurt you should be. Your heart sank to your knees, and the rest of you sank against him. Tears pricked behind your eyes, but damn them. “So, you’ve brought me into the godswood so I would know you really mean how much you hate me?”

Tormund looked bewildered and pawed at his mess of hair until it was far messier. “I don’t hate you. I hate all these things I can’t change because I love you.”

Your eyes snapped shut and your throat quivered. Fight all you wanted, you couldn’t stop bitter salt tears from marching twin tracks down your cheeks. You began to shake your head, little jerks from side to side, and tried to pull away. “You’re just drunk.”

He grunted in frustration and locked his arms around you, almost too tight. “That’s exactly why I brought you to the one fucking place you can’t say that I lied, and you’re still too stubborn to listen. I hate that, too, but I bloody love you, you stupid girl.”

“You can’t,” you whispered.

“Because I’m lowborn? You are  _better_  than thinking like all these other empty-headed idiots. You’re  _my_  Lady, the only I’ll ever see, because I think you people are fucking mad to be this way. You understand what I’m telling you?” He shook you in his arms. “I love you and I hate that you can’t love me and I hate that I hate it because why shouldn’t I get to give as few shits as you?”

“I don’t give few shits,” you said tremulously. “Tormund, these things you think about me, I could  _never_. . .I’m just living to be lying by your side.”

“I don’t want that!” He shook you again, complexion growing more ruddy. “I don’t want you to live that way! You should be living for other things, too, like the brother who came back from the dead, your sister who wishes she was dead, the babies I want to put in your belly! I wanted to be what makes you happy!”

“I told you, you make me the happiest.” He had your arms pinned down, so you wiped your tears on his shirt. “I told you I didn’t want to go back there, but it was my duty to Ned. I have said shit about the world ending half a hundred times, but how can you truly think that I wouldn’t still be with you, even if it were a sweet summer and all the horrible things were gone, or never real to begin with? I think you’re the strongest man I’ve ever met, how can you think I don’t believe you could or should protect me? I think you shouldn’t  _have_  to, I think it isn’t your problem—”

“That is horse shit,” he growled forcefully.

“I can’t lie here, remember?” You tucked your head under his chin and tried to breathe steady. “You can’t love me, because I’m nothing. I’ve always been nothing, and I let all the ones I love die or suffer terrible things because I’m weak and small and I want you to protect yourself and not die trying to save  _me_. I was fucked by a man who hated your people and willingly became his wife. I stopped flowering—I drank the moon tea, and he found out and beat me bloody for killing his child. I hated wildlings, too, long before. Once upon a time, when the world seemed so lovely, but looking back, I don’t know that it ever was. I look up to you, not down on you. That is who I am. Small and weak and angry and vengeful and I will  _always_  do the stupid, wrong thing. You’ve always been free, and you always will be, and you should  _b-be_  free, not with me. You’re better than I’ll ever be. You are perfect. You’re so perfect, Tormund. I never. . .I never meant to make you think those things.”

“It wasn’t his choice, if you had a baby. It’s your choosing. Everything is your choosing.” Tormund leaned back and let you go, head against the bark of the heart tree. “Go.”

“What? No.” You straddled his lap and leaned close to his face again. “I won’t go anywhere without you again, I promised. I swore to you.”

“You heard what I had to say, let me spill my guts on the ground, and then tried to convince me you’re not to be loved. Is that your way of being kind? Is that your goodness or your cruelty?”

“What?”

“You’ll say anything but to leave you be. Tell me you don’t love me, then, and be done with it all. I know you don’t.” He was scowling like you’d never seen, and it was a hot knife in your belly.

You gripped his shirt tight at the collar with both of your small hands, shaking for anger, now. “Is it cruel to not want you to waste it on me? Do you know that you are the only thing I have ever done in my life by my own will and desire? Do you know the truth, Tormund? That it crushes me to think of this war, for it will kill you, and I think my heart will truly perish when I learn that I’ll never see you again. Being with you means throwing aside my duties to my house, and I do it gladly. If I had to leave to keep being yours, I would. I would take up a spear above the Wall, because you are my king and I will follow you. Fuck them all, you are a true man to me, the  _only_  man that I choose or will, ever. You are everything wonderful that I’ve never known in my life, and I would know it all if only I could. I would climb the Wall and not stop until I made it to wherever the bloody hells you’re from. I would give this castle, I would give this  _kingdom_ if it were mine to give. Can you hear, or did you really drink too much of your revolting goat’s milk? I love you, you fucking Ginger Giant. You stalker. You bear-fucking animal person.”

“Oh for fuck’s—I never fucked a bear, you know I never fucked a bear, I don’t want to talk about the bear I never fucked. I want to talk about babies.”

“Not here,” you whispered through the laughter you shared. Once it began, neither of you could stop, and you wound up splayed together on the hardy grasses. You kissed him when you could breathe again. You wanted to kiss away all the little things he hated until there was room for him to love your more unfortunate qualities. “Take me to bed, aye? Take me there just like this.”

“You may have to be the one who takes me.” Tormund made a face and ground his hand against it. “I’m not tempered to being without you anymore. I’ve been drunk almost the whole time.”

You forced yourself to stand in your dusty riding clothes and held your hand out for him. “What do we do now? What comes next?”

Tormund rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck once he was upright. “I think we’ll sleep. I think I’ll wake up and remember me guts on the ground and what an ass I’ve made of myself, feel like shite, but then I’ll remember that you love me, and my head will quit aching, and I won’t leave you alone until you’re awake, and then I’ll start to nag you about making tiny babies with names the day they’re born, and maybe I’ll tell you about Torwyn.”

“How about this,” you began, supporting him as you walked. “When you win the war and come home to me safely, it’s time for sons.”

“ _When_? So it’s when now?” He looked younger instantly, like someone had washed away the lines that had etched so heavy on his face.

“You are right. We could die, but we may also live, and what is life if you do not dream of a future worth living in?” In the dark of the corridor, drunk Tormund was not so quiet as mostly-sober Tormund. You shushed him repeatedly, and were relieved enough to cry when you saw your bed.

Tall-Talker lay atop Tormund’s thicker furs, too warm to wear in Winterfell, which were piled on top of your writing desk. Many of his things were clustered throughout the room, creating a bit of a mess, as your maids were wary of touching his belongings, but the disorder made it feel much more like home.

Once your doors were shut and locked, you exhaled heavily and went to wash your face in the basin. From your polished metal mirror, you saw Tormund struggling with his shirt behind you. You watched for a few moments, feeling both exhausted with him and delighted in his very existence, before turning to assist him. “Tor—yes—Ginger Dear, you have to hold still. Tormund, you’re much bigger than me, I may need a ladder to help you disrobe. Just hold still!”

He grunted and groused while you worked, and eventually he stood with his bare chest and gold-banded arms, swaying just a bit and smirking. He pointed at you, then laughed a bit. “You’re little.”

“Your little Lady, aye.” You tossed his shirt aside and stood back to begin to untie the closures of your own. “Did you really follow me to Last Hearth?”

“O’ course I did. I told you, you weren’t going to go without me. You didn’t  _have_ to know that I was there. I had to.” The second your chest was exposed, his hands reached out. Playing with your tits took up much of his attention span. “When you said you would leave, it felt like a cold knife slid down me throat. I slept here most nights, in spite o’ Jon, because. . .”

“Tormund, please.”

“I’m going to fuck you when you wake up, you know.” He staggered toward the bed and plopped face-down on his side. His next words were too obscured by furs and linen for you to hear, but you were sure it was something cheeky along the lines of his usual ‘cumming buckets’.

By the time you climbed in beside him, he was already snoring. You scoffed and turned him on his side, something you’d found effective before, but your annoyance was chased away by how carefree he looked in slumber. Like a baby, almost. You settled down, nestled in, and felt sleep tug at your arms and legs and the corners of your eyes. You yawned and slipped your hand inside of his. “I do love you,” you whispered, eyes closing.


	4. Chapter 4

 

Your name: submit [What is this?](http://silencethroughwords.tumblr.com/readerinsert)

 

 

When the messenger sent word that he was needed, Tormund left you, after a few words, in Winter Town. You insisted that you were not done with your work with the children, teaching them letters by drawing them in the dirt, and he had to smile at that. Always taking care of little ones. He walked back through the East Gate alone, thinking of you, of the night in the godswood, and resolved himself again that he could no longer let you avoid the topic of little ginger babies. Jon met him in the Yard, and indicated for him to follow.

“All is well?” Snow asked, wrapped in the cloak your sister had made for him. Lately, Sansa had begun to ask Tormund if he would like one of his own.

“Aye,” Tormund replied. “Your man Tennar is teaching them ‘discipline’. The younger men, they like to act like they’re unwilling to learn. Wun Wun will look on in my place, this day. But you don’t want to talk about training or wars, do you, boy?”

Jon stopped before the entry to the Broken Tower. The younger man looked up at the grey, cloudy skies and avoided Tormund’s pointed gaze. “I love Y/N very much. Growing up a bastard is difficult under normal circumstances, but Father chose to raise me with his trueborn sons and daughters, and Catelyn Stark despised me. I suppose she should’ve, she had every right. Every time she saw me or heard my name, she was reminded that her husband had shamed her. I didn’t have many friends here, in Winterfell. My brother Robb, my sister Y/N, and later on, the little ones hadn’t learned enough to hate me yet.”

Tormund shook his head and gripped Jon’s shoulder. “It’s a cruel way to look upon a child. All children are a gift from the gods.”

Jon made no reply to this. “I had no mother, knew no mother, but Y/N mothered all of us. She’s a few years younger than me, but she has always been a good and sweet person, and unbelievably bossy. When Sansa was born, Y/N believed that Sansa was for  _her_. That’s why Sansa is the most spoiled of the Stark children. She had two doting mothers.

“I haven’t spoken to you about her, yet, not really. I let it go for all these months because,” Jon scoffed. “What in the fuck could I even do about it? My attention is stretched thin without having to worry about Y/N, and so I decided I would not worry. She is a woman grown, and you’ve shown me before, many times, that you are a good man. I love my sister. She is the sort of person who never thinks on those that have failed her, but she is plagued by those she thinks that she has failed. I failed her. Many times. She begged me not to go to the Wall. Father told her that she had to stay in Winterfell, as the eldest of his daughters, and she didn’t want me to leave her behind, too, but I did. I wonder what would’ve happened, if I would have been able to keep Theon Greyjoy from taking Winterfell. If I had been able to protect her and our family in her home. In truth, I think Father intended for her to marry Smalljon, eventually, but he had no reason to believe the Umbers would ever break faith, and you should not tell her of this.”

Tormund was scowling, but nodded anyway. “These thoughts are useless, Jon Snow. It doesn’t matter where we would be if you hadn’t gone to the Wall. We are here now, we are alive. I wish Ygritte were here.”

Jon frowned for a moment, but then it disappeared. “It’s been six months, Tormund.”

Tormund waited with tension. “For. . .?”

“Six months. With my sister. I knew, when it first happened. I even knew she would do it. When I told her it was you that killed her husband, she looked a little less dead. She’s suffered enough not to let her do as she pleases, so long as she’s not lobbing off the heads of anyone who’s ever pissed her off.”

A long time passed in an uneasy silence. Tormund grew more uncomfortable with each second, but was unable to decide if he felt more angry or hurt by what he believed was coming. “We’ve built a bridge between our people, Snow. The Free Folk will never kneel, and your people will never truly be free, but we are united in the fight against the dead, and so we are together.  _Those_  are the concerns we share.”

“You’re wrong.” Jon shook his head plainly. “She is my family and I vowed on the day she was freed from Smalljon that I would protect her and not fail, this time. She is still my concern. She will always be my family. Always.”

Tormund steeled himself and took a few slow steps toward his ally. “Listen to me, Jon Snow—”

“Would you marry her?” Jon blurted impatiently. “I’ve not the time to battle you about my sister, and I’ve no need to hear you say what you’re trying to say. I reckon it has something to do with you throwing me off the Wall before you’d give her up. Or something worse, who knows, you get creative. It has been six months, and, with time so precious now, that is worth many years of courting. Would you marry her, if it came to that?”

“Why would it?” Tormund leaned on the ancient stones. “Isn’t it supposed to be against one of your ridiculous rules that she cannot marry a lowborn peasant, let alone a  _wildling_?”

“She can marry a king,” Jon held his eye. “I don’t see it’s necessary, not now, but the time may come when our people need stronger assurance of our loyalty to each other than what there is now, and your people know what it means to strengthen their tribe by bringing in a powerful woman. I’ve drawn the papers. If I am King in the North, then she is Lady of Winterfell, as the eldest heir, woman or not. That means something, even to your people. Winterfell does. They knew my father’s name, it’s the reason Rattleshirt didn’t kill me before he brought me to you and Mance. It may not work the same way, but you  _are_  their king now, Tormund, and that can work. If it comes to this, then we  _could_ form an unbreakable alliance, or at least one that will hold solid until the fighting is done.”

“I love her, Snow.” Tormund said easily. “She is mine and I am hers. We have not said words before the gods, but I know it is true, and no words need to be spoken. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Aye. I’m proud to call you my brother, Tormund. I mean that. You  _are_ my brother, as you will ever be. Should it become necessary, I will be honoured to have you as my family. You have my true and sworn word.” Jon hugged the other man stiffly, as they had in times past.

Another silence.

“Would they quit calling her The Wildling’s Whore?”

“Who calls her that?” Jon fumed.

“Very, very stupid cunts just  _aching_  to be boiled alive.”

“Do as you wish with them. If you marry her by the law or by the gods or by your custom, she is yours, as is her honour.”

“Snow,” Tormund shouted before the man could depart, calling him back. Jon turned back around and approached slowly. “Do you think it would make her happy?”

“To be your queen?” Jon asked.

Tormund shook his head. “To be my wife.”

Jon chuckled, and his laughter grew louder when he realised this was no jest. “She’s mad as a fucking wolverine for you. Political alliance or not, I would never have spoken to you of this if I did not believe she would consent and be happy. I swore I’d never make her marry.”

Pride swelled within Tormund’s chest. He wanted you to be there with him now, to be with him always. “This is the way?”

Jon gave a short nod. “This is the way. Marriages in the Seven Kingdoms between noble houses create the strongest alliances. You are King Beyond the Wall, and King in the Gift. She is sister to the two Kings in the North. My people, my bannermen, they’ve come to respect and admire you because of what you’ve shown them you’re capable of, and how honourable you’ve proven to be. If I am King, that means that some of the old ways must make way for the new. The world is changing, and that means the North must change, and I know you agree. For what it’s worth, marriage or no, you’ve my blessing. So long as you both are happy.”

“She’d have to fuckin’ set me on fire to get rid of me.” The two men shared a rare moment of easy laughter, but Tormund grew anxious again and looked out to Town. “I should bring her home for supper.”

“She’s still teaching the little ones their letters?” Jon lowered his head against a strong gust of chilling wind. Tormund nodded. “She’s teaching you?”

“Nay, boy.” Tormund clapped his shoulder and began his trek back to Winter Town. “My woman can read, I’ve no need to.”

“What if she sends you ravens while you’re away from her? I can only imagine what filth they would contain. You’d have to get someone to read it to you. I’ve seen what you look like when a squire smiles at her. You’re really going to let someone else see that side of her, even in words?” Jon clambered down behind him, matching pace.

“Huh.” Tormund startled, brow raised. “I admit I had not thought of this. Maybe I’ll have her teach me the important words, or draw dirty pictures.”

The bastard and the wildling kings parted ways with reverential nods. Tormund looked up at the sky when the clouds parted. The sun was already making its journey to set in the horizon, and the shimmering light reminded him of a certain dress of yours. Some days you wore things you considered quite plain, but were still quite stunning to the man who had hardly seen people where more than grey furs all his life, though he wouldn’t normally admit it. It had been your nameday, the eleventh day of the seventh moon, he reminded himself, willing himself never to forget. The dress you’d worn that day was a gift from Sansa, a deep green with threads of silver embroidery of fluttering leaves, climbing ivy, and flowers. Your maids had sculpted your hair so elaborately, weaving in cords of silver. He’d always found you beautiful, but so much had changed since you’d first met, and he’d been quite surprised by a Southern Lady curtseying to him. Your eyes held life anew, now, and your colour had improved, and your smiles came easily. He carried this vision of you, of his woman, as he passed into Winter Town and greeted his people as he went. His eyes were seeking you the entire time.

An elderly woman who’d once slain a giant stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and pointed him to one of the huts. “The lady wolf.”

He stood in the doorway with Rose, watching you. No matter how lovely you had looked on your nameday and all days, you were never so gorgeous as when you worked with the children.

Karsi’s little girl, Willa, pulled on your skirts. “I want to hear about Ser Dunk and Egg.”

“I want to hear stories about them, too!” said one of the boys.

Tormund caught your eye, and you knelt down beside the little group of five year olds and placed your arms around them. “Look who’s joined us.”

Willa smiled at him, already missing baby teeth. She remembered him from Hardhome. “It’s the king.  _Our_  king, not King Crow.”

“Yes,  _your_  king. He’s come for me, that means it’s time for you lot to go and eat.” You rose again and wrinkled your nose at their protests. “You know that I’ll return.”

“Aye, she will,” Tormund promised, taking your arm.  On the dirt path of the town, he moved his hand to the small of your back. “You’re kind to them, when you haven’t got to be.”

You wrinkled your nose again at him, but paused to quickly wave to a passing Wun Wun. “Of course I have to be kind to them. Most of them have no mothers or fathers anymore, so they’ve unofficially become my little brood. They are so bright and so curious. Besides, how would it seem if your woman was frigid or cruel to them?”

“That is why you’re perfect.”

“I know you think that lords and ladies are all selfish, terrible people, but it’s our duty to serve the realm. There are good and bad, just as there are good and bad everywhere that you can look. I try to be good. The residents of Winter Town, Free Folk or residents of the North, are my responsibility. I will take care of them.”

Against a market stall at the end of town, Tormund pulled you in for a deep kiss. Dark was falling, but any eyes could see. That was important, but it wasn’t entirely expository. His conversation with Jon was still ringing in his ears. Truth be told, he didn’t give a damn about political alliances or the affairs of southern society. He knew himself to be no king, just a leader. If it made it easier to be with you, though, for Jon to think so, Tormund made up his mind to let him think so all that he wanted. He remained pressed against you even when you turned your face away and gasped for air.

“Tormund,” you whispered, pushing his hands away from your waist. He could hear the blush in your voice, though his eyes were closed and his nose in your hair. When he made no move but to hold tighter, eyes still closed, you stopped trying to push him away. “Tormund?”

“Does it matter where we are?” he asked.

You paused, then shook your head. “Why do you want them to see?”

“Because they need to know. How things are. That it isn’t just in some southern castle.”

Your face fell. “I am sorry that I have never thought of that before. Men are taught to be stone, here. They never show their love to the world. I should have thought differently.”

Tormund scoffed. “The pure idiocy of the way your people behave will never stop boiling my blood. A woman like you deserves to be loved with every step. The Free Folk take pride in their lovers. It shows our strength.”

“I like that,” you beamed at him. “No man is made of stone.”

“I’ll make you a free woman yet, Y/N.”

“But I wouldn’t have a name, would I?” you took his arm when offered and allowed yourself to be swept up in his words. You began to walk together, again, straight for the kitchens. Your hunger was growing, and so was his. “If I were one of the Free Folk. That’s strange to me. Smallfolk have no second names, only nobles and bastards, but I’ve been a Stark and an Umber. Would I be allowed to be Stark, still?”

Tormund shrugged. “I suppose. Names aren’t what’s important, lass. It’s what you do.”

“But if we became Free Folk-married, whatever that is or means, I would not become Y/N Giantsbane?”

He walked out of step, almost faltered. “I’ve never seen it done, but I don’t know who could or would want to stop you, if that’s what you chose.”

“. . .My uncle Benjen told me that, er, Free Folk don’t marry, anyway.”

“Another crow who doesn’t know shit.”

You elbowed him. “I loved my uncle, don’t speak that way of him, please. We still haven’t found out what happened to him.”

“I’ve told you before, I wouldn’t keep the knowledge from you if I had it to share. I told Snow, too. I’ve even asked. Not one of my people knows for sure what happened to Stark. We know that it wasn’t us, so my guess is he was attacked by Walkers. No one deserves that fate, not even a damn crow.” Tormund’s big hand squeezed the sway in your waist. “You go to your chambers, Lady Stark. I’ll have food sent. I forgot to tell your brother something while we spoke.”

You nodded in agreement and kissed him softly before parting. “I’ll have a bath while I wait, then, and maybe read. Send my regards to Jon and tell him I’ll see him tomorrow, if he has the time.”

Before he reached Jon’s chambers, Tormund heard quick, light little footsteps behind him.

“Tormund?” Sansa called.

He turned, a bit surprised. He’d spoken with your sister numerous times, and got along with her, even, but had never actually seen her alone. “Aye?”

“Jon talked to you, didn’t he?” she asked, looking doe-eyed and crestfallen. “He’s giving her to you, isn’t he?”

Tormund tilted his head and regarded her with confusion. “I spoke with Snow, aye, but I don’t know what you mean.”

“Y/N.” Sansa’s eyes turned red, and he grew nervous. It wouldn’t be a good sight for an onlooker. “You’re taking her, aren’t you?”

“She is not mine to take and she is not Jon’s to give,” he refuted. He stood straighter and stuck out his hand. “She is her own, as you are your own. And I’ll tell you the same as I told Y/N, if Snow ever tries to give you to some fucking lord you don’t want, I’ll cut off his pecker and throw it over the Wall.”

“But are you taking her? You can be who you like and say what you like and live as you like, but are you taking her?”

Tormund exhaled slowly. This conversation wouldn’t be pleasant. “Lady Stark,” he began, out of respect for you, “I’ve learned a great deal about you from your sister. You are the one she loves most in the world. No man could impose on your place in her heart.”

Sansa stepped closer. “Please. I’m not ready to lose her again. I’ve been a prisoner for four years, and I missed her every day. Were it not for you and your people and what you have done for us, I know I would never have seen her again, but I don’t want you to take her away. She belongs here, this is her home, and it can be yours, too. Jon would never have you leave, especially if it meant Y/N would not. I’m not accustomed to the ways of your people and. . .”

He held up a hand. “I’ll be honest with you, Sansa. I don’t believe you’ll believe my word. Not because of what I am, but because of what living in the southern society has allowed happen to you.”

Sansa looked to her feet. “Jon has already asked me if I approved, and I told him that I thought you a fine person and. . .I’ve learned a lot about who you are, too, from her, and she would go wherever you asked her to go, and I know that I am selfish and have no right to intervene, but if you could only. . .”

“What makes you think that I would spirit her away?”

The girl turned red as her hair, then. “Golda. The woman with the yellow hair. She told me her mother was taken by the wild—the Free Folk. That she was stolen. She works in our kitchens now. She makes the loveliest lemon cakes I’ve ever tasted, even in King’s Landing—I like her very much. She said that one day you would take Y/N and make her your wildling queen. Free Folk.”

“It is true that this is done, but it isn’t the only way, and I’ve no need to steal or kidnap a woman I already have. Understand?”

At long last, Sansa took his hand and shook it. “I don’t think you’re evil or a bad man. I know the faces of evil and bad men. And women.”

“You’ve nothing to explain to me. Your sister is having a bath. I’ve got to speak to Jon again, about her. Go and sit with her. As I said, she loves you most in this world.” Tormund left her in the corridor and heard her take her exit. Alone, again, he sighed and let his shoulders fall. When he reached Jon, the boy was sitting with his head in his hands.

Jon sat up quickly. “Tormund, what’s the matter?”

“I could ask you the same.”

Jon picked up a raven letter and shook his head. “More of the same shit piling on the older shit.”

Tormund sat across from him and plucked an apple from the bowl between them. “Your other sister just had a meltdown about me taking Y/N away.”

Jon closed his eyes and tilted his head back, shaking it slightly. He grunted. “I told you she was spoiled.”

“Not spoiled. Troubled.”

“I don’t know how to help her with it. I swore to her I would protect her, but she only said that I couldn’t, that no one could protect anyone.”

“Sounds like Y/N.”

Jon ran his fingers through his hair, truly distraught-looking. “What do I do? Between the Umbers and the Lannisters and the Boltons, I don’t know if either of them will ever put their faith in  _anything_  again. I can’t go hunting Lannisters now, and the others are all dead.”

“Y/N is better than she was,” Tormund stopped chewing and stared at the apple in his hand. “She dreams of him, though, and she’ll wake up screaming or crying or both. Makes a man feel useless. She asked me everything there was to ask about killing him before. I wish I could bring him back too, like the Red Witch did you, just so I could take him to the cells and spend the rest of my days taking little pieces off him til there’s none left. The Free Folk hated the Umbers as much as the Crows, but when I see her looking so afraid and helpless in her own dreams. . .” He closed his fist around the apple, and it became mush in his hand. His eyes flicked up to Jon’s. “You’re their king. I want it gone from any papers or books that she was ever Lady to Last Hearth.”

“Aye, I’ve done that for Sansa. House Umber still lives, so it isn’t as simple. There are many who want her back to serve as Ned Umber’s regent. She’s already spoken to me of it many times.”

Tormund felt his eyes become pinpricks, then stood so quickly his chair squeaked. He leaned down to glare at his friend, breath coming harder. “You let that happen and I  _will_  throw you from the top of the Wall.”

“I know. It’s a fucking nightmare.”

“What did she say?”

Jon sighed and shook his head. “You’ll have to ask her. I can’t be the fence between you. I haven’t interfered in your affair and I won’t begin now. I shouldn’t have said anything, I just thought that you knew.”

Tormund tossed the chair over as his heart raced, then brought his hands to his head. “Bring the boy here, and let me kill the rest of them. I already told her, she and I can raise him as ours.”

“We can’t spare a fighting man, Tormund, you know that, and we can’t afford to lose the loyal Umbers. She’s a widow with an annulment and all she cares about for Last Hearth is Ned. She won’t make it her home again. She has half a dozen children here or more, in Winter Town. She has you. She has plenty to keep her busy, and she can advise Ned as she pleases right here.” Jon tapped his fingers against the table demonstratively. “Although it is quite noble you’d raise Smalljon’s son as your own, considering.”

“Considering what?”

Jon shrugged. “Everything.”

“Fuck.” Tormund gripped the edge of the table and tried to calm himself as you’d shown him, breathing deeply. “Fucking southern cunts. I was going to tell you I wanted to marry her but not for your stupid alliance, but if I did, it would remove her ties to Last Hearth?”

“By the laws of man? Yes.” Jon nodded. “In theory, she would become part of your house and loyal to your house only, except her family of birth, so the Free Folk, I suppose. You are king and my offer stands regardless of your reasons. I know Y/N will consent to being your wife, but maybe don’t tell her you want to be her husband out of pure spite and jealousy.”

“It’s being possessive, not jealous, and anything but pure.” Tormund shot. “It’s not the laws of the Free Folk. She can be loyal to whoever she chooses. I just don’t like her choice.”

“You think she isn’t loyal to you?”

“I like you, boy, and I like Sansa and all the others running around this shit-reeking place, but fuck the rest of them. I don’t give a shit who wants her where, if it isn’t here.”

“If it isn’t by you.”

“Don’t play with words with me, Snow.”

Jon simply shrugged again. “No one said that I blame you. I’d feel the same if it was Ygritte.”

“When she came back from Last Hearth, she cried for a week straight. She hid it, but I knew. She drinks more when she remembers. She’s probably had too much to drink in the time I’ve been away. She tries to hide that, too.” Tormund ran his hand up his arm, feeling the links of the chain mail he still wore. “I want blood, Snow, blood and guts and screaming, and I’ll have it, one way or another. I don’t kneel to you. I don’t take your orders. If she’d been brought up the right way, she’d be able to take vengeance herself, but you lot locked her up in this place and put a needle in her hands, rather than a blade or a spear. You spoke of failing her, but that was your greatest failure. Leaving her defenceless.”

Jon’s expression darkened and his fingers hovered above Long Claw. “I told you that I have no time or will to battle you over my sister. I told you we can’t spare the fighting men to kill the Umbers nor the loyal Umber’s fighting men. There is none for us to fight now except the dead, that is what matters, that is why we have come here. There’s six hundred miles between us and the Wall, maybe a thousand miles between us and them, but that distance will close. I need you now, and I’ve died for you and your people, never forget.” With a single exhale, he was drained again, looking just as tired and overtaken as when Tormund entered the room. “You are not my enemy, you are my brother. Brothers fight. You were kissed by fire at birth, and I see that fire each day. I need it, my people need it, your people need it, she needs it. If she pointed to a man and said that he sneezed on her, you’d take that maul of yours and bury it deep in his brain. You look at her and see a pain you cannot take away, and the fire grows. Don’t let it consume you, or it’ll extinguish her.”

The men stared at each other a long time, but no one was touching his weapon, now. Fingers hung useless at the ends of arms with no present enemy to fight.

“Starting a war with you won’t take her dreams and memories away,” Tormund said. “But it’s not over, Jon Snow. When we come back victorious, there’ll be a day.”

“And if all the Umbers perish in the war?”

Tormund pulled the door open and stepped out. “Then I will burn Last Hearth to the ground and walk my lady over its ashes.”

When he reached the chambers he shared with you, Tormund almost opened the doors. He cursed, then knocked, which he’d never done. “Is Sansa in there?”

“I’m just leaving!” He heard her sister call. When Sansa ducked out of the room, she snuck a look back at you, then closed the door quietly. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked, but the other ginger simply smiled and left.

“Tormund?” You moved to sit at the table, your skin still damp under your dressing robe. You smiled when he came in, and motioned to his seat. “Sansa came to visit while I was bathing, so I’m famished.”

“I don’t even care what it is.” Tormund set Tall-Talker aside and crashed into his chair beside yours. He ate with his hands, knowing it would make your nose wrinkle, but his stomach was too empty for him to mind. “Snow will make time for you.”

“Sansa told me that you made time for her. I was surprised, pleasantly. She’s asked me a thousand questions about you, but she was timid before. Now she hardly talks to anyone. I’m grateful you spoke with her. Will you please stop doing that?”

“I’m not a lord,” he said, mouth still full of potato and venison.

“But you  _are_  my king.”

Tormund couldn’t even bring himself to smile back at you. He dropped his food back on its plate and watched as your face became blank and your eyes went straight down. “What?”

You shook your head. “I’m sorry for irritating you. I won’t do it again.” You even seemed shocked to yourself when the words were said. Your lips remained parted and you quickly placed your hand on his arm. “I. . .”

He only stared.

You rose quickly and moved over into his lap, your hands framing his face gently. “It meant nothing.”

“You never asked what I spoke to Snow about.”

“I assumed it was either boring or saddening. I hate all this talk of war. Makes me feel helpless and hopeless. But you understand, don’t you? That I only made a mistake, just now.”

“I know you spoke to him, many times, by his recollection, of becoming regent of Last Hearth for that little boy you hold so dear.”

“Gods damn his heart.” You sighed deeply and let your hands fall away from him. “Jon wouldn’t know when to stop flapping his lips if it stabbed him in the chest and shouted ‘For the Watch!’. Listen to me, Ginger Giant, I. . .I’m running out of ideas for how to do things the right way.”

He scoffed. “You only struggle with reconciling your right way with what people expect from you.”

“And you don’t expect things from me?” You drove a knife through your steak of venison and brought it to your mouth. “Everyone expects things from everyone, Tormund. When you have a title, people expect much more from you.”

“Oh, it was so difficult for you, wasn’t it? Growing up with servants to build your fires and a moron direwolf and scores of little Stark brothers and sisters and a bonus bastard Snow. You’ve never been hungry in your life, you don’t understand the way things truly are. You think we don’t name our babies because we don’t love them? You’ve never buried a babe unnamed, let alone one who  _did_  survive, who there was hope for.”

You lowered your head. “You are right, I have lived a privileged life. But, Tormund. . .I will not have any children if there’s hardly hope for them to survive. If it’s so likely that they will die that you have to wait two years before they can even be given a name. . .”

Big hands pushed you away, and you fell back onto the floor with your eyes wide. Within a second’s glance, the anger vanished from his face, and he got down beside you. “Are you hurt?”

“N-no, just. . .why?”

His heart sunk below his knees and he was grappling for you, drawing you near, to hold you in his lap. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I’m all right.” You pressed your teary eyes against his neck. “I didn’t mean I won’t have your children, I just mean. . .I couldn’t bear to lose a child. I’m not strong like you, and I even think of Torwyn, though I know nothing about him, just that he was yours and you loved him and now he is. . .no longer with us.”

“I’ve lost three unnamed sons and two unnamed daughters, and Torwyn.”

You felt your chin shake like when you were a girl, and you remembered Robb and Jon always teasing you for it. Thankfully, Tormund couldn’t see, but he could hear your sniffles. “Oh, Tormund. . .I couldn’t bear it. I need a maester. The babies do.”

“Of course I’d have a maester for my children. I’d have a maester for you. It’s possible in the Gift. There is one here.” He turned and kissed your hair. “He was a boy of five. Already reaching for bows. His mother was not my wife, none of them were. His mother caught the pox, and then so did he. I wasn’t there for any of it. Came home, no son. While I was away, I carved a tiny ash bow for him to play with, so he’d get used to the feel of it and not hurt himself with a real one.”

You brought the sleeve of your dressing robe up to your eyes, shoulders shaking. It wasn’t your place to grieve, you knew, but that didn’t stop the dagger from twisting in your heart. Trying to speak only made it worse. You sobbed like a child. “I’m sorry. If you want a hundred babies. . .”

“I don’t—no more about him, now.” Tormund closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “I can’t. This is the first I’ve even wanted to think of having babies, because they’re yours. My strong Stark.”

You laughed mirthlessly, but it didn’t matter. He would continue to grieve if you did, and his mind might be freed, somewhat, if you could offer distraction. “An army of them. You know, my hair was once red? Mother told me. I was born with hair red as the flame, she said, and Father said the same. The Tullys are famous for their red hair, generation to generation, and you are kissed by fire. Was your father?”

“My mother,” he corrected, slowly stroking up and down your thigh.

“That blood is strong.” You kissed him now, just softly, just to feel each other. “Tully, Stark, and Tormund. They’ll be stronger than you and I both. They’ll be kings, maesters, pirates, warriors. . .”

His hand slipped up to your lower belly. “All beginning right here.”

“And think of it,” you whispered, the easy smile returning once more. “After the war, there’ll be peace between our people for hundreds of years, because our fiery sons and daughters will remind them all of the strength that comes when our blood combines.”


	5. Chapter 5

**WARNING: THERE IS A GRAPHIC DEPICTION OF DEATH THAT MAY BE TRIGGERING TO SOME PEOPLE.** Now please hold my hand.

 

“Sansa.” You rapped quickly on the door. When she did not answer, you knocked harder. “Sansa, please, I’m sorry, just please let me in.”

Your sister’s face was creased with sleep and her hair had fallen from its usual impeccable smoothness. Her eyes fluttered and she tried to squint at you through the dark. “Y/N? What is it?”

You pushed her gently back inside her bedroom and shut the door behind you. Moonlight poured into the room, illuminating the great woven direwolf rug in the centre of the floor. “Will you let me sleep in here again? Please?”

She nodded sleepily and led you over to her bed, though you knew the way well now. “Y/N?”

“I’m terribly sorry for waking you again, there’s plenty more hours to rest,” you stretched on your side, and the two of you faced each other, just as you had as children, for so many years. “Do you remember when you used to have bad dreams and beg me to come sleep in here with you?”

“And now you’re the one with the bad dreams. Well, you aren’t the only one, I’m sorry.”

You frowned and patted her back. “If I have not been here for you as I should, I am the sorry one, you sweet girl. I suppose I’ve kept my nights on hold for. . .”

Sansa pulled up the furs around you both and shook her head. “You do not owe your nights to me. I am happy that. . .um, well, that they bring you such. . .joy.”

You descended into laughter as your sister buried her face into her pillow, blushing.

“May I ask of it?”

“Of what?”

Sansa’s eyes were straight to the sheets. “When you. . .does it really feel nice?”

You sighed sadly and stroked your sister’s hair behind her ear. “Yes. If I may be truthful, and stop me if I say too much, there is nothing like it in the world. With Smalljon, I always felt like his toy. Tormund has always treated me well. I don’t want another man ever again.”

“I don’t, either, or at least I think so,” Sansa whispered. “Does that mean that I am broken? That he broke me, like a shattered bowl?”

“ _No_ ,” you whispered fiercely, sitting up and over your poor, sweet girl. Sansa placed her face against your night gown and wept quietly. You began to stroke her back, now, just as when she was still little. “No,  _never_ , no matter what you ever decide about who does or does not get in between your legs, if you have a dozen lovers or never again, Ramsay bruised you, he bled you, but he did not break you. You will heal and get better. You remain strong. You remain Sansa Stark. You will do great things, and a woman can do far greater things than marrying a man and giving him sons. This world is yours.”

She eyed you sceptically. “Who shows us how to do those things?”

“You do the things you  _wish_  to do.”

“But we can’t,” she protested. “You know we can’t. You know that it only works for you because of this war with the dead.”

You shook your head. “No. This is my choice, and I would have always chosen it.”

“You wouldn’t have had the chance!”

“I believe that I would have.” You sighed and decided to argue no further. You both needed rest. “Or maybe I wouldn’t have, and I would have gone to the Wall to see Jon and Tormund would have taken me by chance. I believe the gods meant for us to be. Only they can create such unlikely circumstances and bring two people together.”

Sansa snorted. “You sound as silly and full of fancy as I did when I left for King’s Landing. Have you gotten a raven?”

You smacked her with your pillow and your shared laughter grew so great that you expected Old Nan to come and scold you. When you realised she wouldn’t, couldn’t, you sobered once more. “Jon complains of how much paper and ink Tormund wastes drawing little pictures. He’s actually quite good, even on such small scrolls. I suppose, with the rate they’re coming, he could be sending them every time he just gets bored.”

“What are they?” curiosity curried Sansa's tone so that you laughed again.

“You don’t want to hear of most of them, but some are just quite...well, sweet, for a red-haired murder machine. It’s always something different. He can’t write, but he can tell a whole story with just a few strokes of a quill. He once managed to squeeze our dining table with our two chairs, drinks upon the table, a bowl of fruit, and I knew he was missing that place. How we sit and talk there.”

Sansa lifted her head suddenly. “What it is even like to be loved so much?”

You brushed her cheek and closed your eyes. “You will know. You will love so deeply. You will love them even when you are so puzzled by the things they do. You’ll forgive when they eat with their hands and get greasy fingerprints on your dresses. . .”

“You miss him so much, don’t you?” Sansa eased her way closer and snuggled against you, just as she did as a little girl.

Your sigh could have echoed in the room. “I remember when Father would leave, how distraught Mother would become. I thought it was silly when I was very young, and then, when I started to come of age and believed I knew everything about the wide known world, I thought it foolish. Because  _obviously_  he was always going to come back, so what was the point in being upset?”

“But then. . .”

“Exactly. If she hadn’t left for King’s Landing, she never would have seen him again. So many horrible lessons learned, I know. Just when you think it cannot possibly get worse, it does. Now, I have that same fear as Mother. Tormund should be safe, but I fear every day that the next raven I receive will tell me that he’s gone forever. No more greasy fingerprints on my dresses, but I would have him ruin them all, this second, if it meant he would just be home, safe. Alive.” You closed your eyes again, more tightly now, and tried to play off your sniffles as mere stuffiness. You remembered well the argument you’d had the morning Tormund left. You were still so angry as you saw he and Jon off that when he looked back at you, you were still frowning. The guilt was tormenting you daily. Such a stupid, small thing, an argument, and it could be the last things you ever said to him, the last look you gave him, rather than one of love.

“They are on their journey back,” Sansa softly assured you. “Four long months of waiting, though. It’s only more time wasted. It turned out to be all for nothing.”

“Let’s not talk of the war. Let’s only be grateful that they are all coming  _home_  now. I’ve been watching from the battlements, four times every day, looking for a sign of them.” You sighed once more, then turned on your pillow. “Now we really must sleep.”

Sansa only yawned her agreement.

Long before you sister awoke again, you tiptoed out of her bedroom. You managed to get a few hours of sleep, which was good for these days. The sun would triumph across the sky, soon, but for now, you lit candles for your work. You couldn’t decide if you loved or loathed the cloak you were making. Once you’d finished his, you thought you may as well make one for yourself to replace the one Smalljon had given you after your marriage. It had somehow escaped Tormund’s notice that yours had chains rather than heavy leather straps, but it had been warm enough and your sewing skills lacking enough that it didn’t seem important to replace it quickly.

It was rather pretty, if you thought so yourself. You smiled at the grey fur lining and the albino wolverine pelt you would affix to the collar— _that_  was a special find, indeed, one you gladly paid handsomely for—on Tormund’s, you’d chosen another wolverine to repel the ice, but it was dark and lovely. Fitting. You looked over at it with a warm little smile while threading your needle. It hung in the new wardrobe you’d asked for to hold his belongings that he kept with you.

The only thing left to do was finish the figure on your left leather strap. On the right, facing left, you were proud to have managed a direwolf that even Sansa praised. For the other, however, you’d practiced on scraps of leather before stitching the first ones, until the feel of stitching it became natural and you knew what it should look like. Beneath the candle’s glare, you worked carefully, your fingers and needle moving at a slow, somewhat gruelling pace. The tiger was facing the wolf, jaws open in a roar that could deafen any lion.

* * *

 

Another night alone. You sighed heavily on your pillow and looked at the vacant side of your bed. There was still a chill in your bones from standing watch, waiting, and after an hour, your newest handmaid, Mila, started to nudge you on the arm and insist that you return to your rooms.

“He asked me to take care of you and look after you,” said the girl. She’d refused dresses each time they were offered, and wore her own worn cloak and the shirt and pants of a stable boy. “I can’t have you catching your death. Why do you do that?”

“Why do I look for Tormund?” you’d asked. When Mila nodded, you wrinkled your brow. “Oh, do not even pretend that the Free Folk don’t  _miss_  their loved ones and hope for their return!”

“Aye,” Mila admitted coolly, “but there is always work. No time to stand around, watching. He will come whether or not you’re standing around, waiting for him.”

“I feel as though I’ve run out of things to do. I’ve finished his gift—”

“A  _gift_?” Mila howled wildly and had to grip her flat belly. “Just for managing to stay alive and come back?”

“Shut up, you little bugger. Yes, a gift. Tsk, I should not even talk to you. You’ll go back to Winter Town and say that the king’s chosen a weak woman.”

Still giggling, Mila shook her head. “Nay, not a weak woman, just mad and rich.”

Then she’d done something that struck you as odd. The young free woman had stopped midstep, having seen something in the sky, and she would only smirk and shake her head when you asked for an explanation.

Now all of your maids were dismissed, and you had managed to eat a simple supper, and were trying to broker some deal with the gods for a decent night of sleep. You’d often wondered, by now, if there was something the wood witch could do, or, hell, if that Red Witch could remove memory of Last Hearth from your mind. You were bored of seeing Smalljon’s braids and hearing the echoes of his dull voice. You sneered at the memories and dreams of his pathetic attempts to lie with you; he was either too out of practice to know better or so entirely selfish that he did not care. That was no man. Your marriage was no marriage. It was a coerced lie, and he was  _dead_ , and all of this gave you satisfaction to think on. A dead man may haunt your dreams, indeed, but you were  _alive_. His bones were ashes strewn in the wind, along with all the affection and respect you’d held for him, before.

Rose jumped up onto the bed and stretched across the end on her back, moving side to side and licking her nose. When she looked at you, her sweet eyes were filled with such love, your smile grew as wide as it could go and you scratched her belly.

“Hello, beautiful girl. Your papa is right, you are a little idiot. You’re like an oversized puppy. But, at least you’re an oversized puppy who can still eat faces, if you needed to. Will you sleep with mummy tonight?” Your hand froze in her fur, and you looked to the door. “Did you open it on your own? Did you learn that from Ghost? Well, at least you’ve learned something new. Yes, you did!”

Rose snuffed and panted as though she were in heaven, and you laughed softly. You had, indeed, by chance, received the dimmest-witted of the direwolf pups from Father, but Rose was a pure-hearted creature. Her happiness escalated to soft whines that rose pitifully in pitch.

You chuckled again. “You sweet—”

Someone came from behind and locked you against themselves, their inner elbow preventing your screams and their other arm subduing your upper body. For a few panicked moments, you struggled, biting, kicking, thrashing wildly to free yourself from their grip, calling with muffled voice for Rose, but then you grew still. Rose remained on her back, panting with her tongue out, softly whining for love. Once upon a time, if Smalljon approached you the wrong way if she were in the room, her fur would bristle and she’d stand between you, growling like a real direwolf. Still, she panted. Her tail even wagged. There was only one person in the world who could get away with such things without Rose trying to protect you.

You bit down harder, hoping you could break skin through the furs. Your heart was still pounding, and though you still couldn’t talk, you began to curse Tormund in every way you knew.

“Damn mutt,” he murmured, pulling you backward from the bed. When you were lifted off your feet, you tried kicking him, but the angle just wasn’t advantageous. His hand clenched around your throat. “If you scream, I’ll knock you to the ground, girl.”

His hand slackened enough for you to breathe, and you gasped deeply for air. While you did, your body thrumming with adrenaline and excitement mixed with your residual fear and anger, Tormund lifted up your cloak from its hook and wrapped it around you. From his belt, you saw a flash of silver, and then realised with widening eyes that there was a blade pressed between your breasts. So many questions raced within your mind, but the blood started to course through your veins even faster. Was it perverse to grow so aroused? Was it wicked to wish he would press his fingers between your legs?

Tormund pushed you back against the wall and kissed you unmercifully. You could feel him, too, and moaned helplessly against his mouth. You tried reaching for his pants, but he wouldn’t let you, just chuckling breathlessly and pulling a length of rope from somewhere and winding it between and around your wrists. Tight enough to present a challenge, but not tight enough to hurt or make your fingers numb.

“There are people guarding the castle,” you warned.

“Like that oversized dog?” He tilted his head down toward Rose, who whined and pawed at his legs. He looked regretful as he shooed her away. “Not now, damn it!”

“Don’t hurt her feelings,” you whispered, your knee meeting his leg sharply.

Tormund laughed heartily and grabbed you by your bonds. “You can try to fight. You can try to run. You make a sound, you draw attention to yourself, whoever dies, their blood’s on your hands.”

It was actually frighteningly easy for him to get you outside of castle walls without getting any notice. There was much more chill in the night air, as winter fell, and he moved so quickly it was difficult to keep up. More than once, he abruptly shoved your back against the castle walls, listening to the voices of guards in idle conversation as they passed above. Each time, he held his blade to your throat. Each time, his dark gaze bore into yours. By the time you felt frozen dew under your feet, your throat was raw, but all you could think of was his body above yours.

He wasn’t taking you to the copse of trees, like he had a few times. He didn’t take you further into the woods. You realised, with breathless wonder, that he was taking a long and cautious route to the dwelling meant for him in Winter Town. Suddenly, you dug your heels in and gazed up at the night sky, and gasped when you saw what Mila had seen, what she’d refused to tell you. The Red Wanderer in the Moonmaid. Tormund pulled full force on your bonds, making your body cant forward. Your heart thumped so much harder, so loudly in your ears, for now you knew it wasn’t simply one of your games of fantasy. Tormund didn’t deal in coincidences.

Once close enough, you bashed your head into his face and used the moment to unsheathe another knife from his belt. Though his nose bled, it was nothing to him, and he grinned at you through the dark. “I’ve a blade and hammer, you’ve tied hands and a knife. That won’t help you, girl.”

Edging back away, never taking your eyes from his, you worked the knife against the ropes. Something else he’d taught you. “It won’t help you, either.”

There was a look of pride on his face he couldn’t quite hide, shoulders shaking with the husky laughter that rumbled through his chest. Your shaking was shivers while you thought and calculated. Little flecks of grass stuck to your feet. You swallowed and breathed deep as he casually strolled his way over to you.

“Lass,” he chuckled. “I warned you once. Once is all you get.”

As hard as you could manage, you kicked Tormund at the side of his knee, and, somehow, by some miracle or divine intervention, he actually looked surprised and crashed to his other knee on the frosty, dewy grasses. Taking your chance, you walked around to his back, grabbed him rough by the hair, drawing his head to your collarbone, and dug the edge of the knife against his throat. “I never had the opportunity to warn  _you_.”

With absolutely no discernible effort, Tormund knocked your knife arm away and shoved back against you hard enough for you to hit the ground, but not so it could hurt. When he drew up and stood over you in a sort of faux menacing, you understood the fear he was capable of drawing from a man who opposed him, but all you could do was smile and hold the knife out to him. He took it from your hands and tossed it to the side. “I tried and failed.”

“Aye, you did.” When he pulled you to your feet, you noticed a tiny nick to the right side of his throat. He yanked both arms behind your back and kicked the back of your knee so you’d keep walking. “That doesn’t mean this is done.”

He steered you back toward Winter Town. All of the lights were out. Not a single candle in a window, no torches lit. Your knees and thighs felt too weak to go on, but he made you press on until you passed through a dark doorway near the back of Town, and Tormund shoved you down on a bed he must’ve made himself. You couldn’t make any words come. It had all been done perfectly. He’d taken you captive, you’d broken free, tried to slit his throat, and he stopped you. Now there was only one thing.  

He’d proven himself strong and cunning.

You shucked off your cloak first, then began to untie the front of your dress.

Tall-Talker was caked in old, congealed blood. He took the maul from his back and let it fall with a considerable thump to the dirt floor. He dropped his knees between your legs and couldn’t look away from you, shedding layer after layer. “You’re not going to fight anymore, little lady of the castle?”

“No.” With a hard, deep breath, you smirked. “You’ve proven yourself everything a husband should be, on this night.”

You became a mad jumble of bodies entwined. As soon as you got the chance, you rolled your tongue up his neck, right where you’d held that knife. “I can’t believe you let me take one sharp enough to actually cut you.”

“It was a gamble, but I thought I was going to come then and there. You actually did it.”

“But I didn’t! I never would’ve slit your throat!”

“Aye, but you had the guts to pretend to try.” Tormund slipped two fingers inside you and grinned wildly, laughing against your nipple. He took it in his mouth and sucked hard, forcing filthy words through your lips. “And here I thought I was the only one getting worked up over a bit of fake kidnapping and ritualised knife play.”

“I was wet even when I was still angry,” you revealed, tracing your finger over the runes on one of his remaining armbands. “I’ve not misunderstood, have I?”

He shook his head and pushed your hair back. “Not at all. I did not plan on tonight, but when I saw the Thief, I rode fast as I could. There are no coincidences.”

You smirked. “I thought the same thing when I saw the red stars. Tonight is the night.”

“Tonight is the night the king of the Free Folk makes you his wife and queen. Scream real loud for me, so they’ll know and behave accordingly tomorrow.”

“You’re sure it’s what you want?”

Tormund curled his fingers inside you so that you mewled. “In truth, you have been my wife. With the Thief in the Moonmaid, it just seemed a good time to steal you.”

“Wait, wait,” you squirmed beneath the work of his fingers. “Lie down.”

“What?” His eyes widened. “I’ve been asking all year.”

Shrugging, you blushed and helped him take off the rest of his clothes. “I’m a different woman now. You told me the first time that you wanted to do more things to me than there were names for. Well, I’ve come to find that I want to do a lot of things to you, too.” The confidence you had gained over time, at the moment, still did not feel enough to enable you to do this, but you wanted to, anyway. To please him. To please yourself. When you both were naked on the furs, you smiled and let him guide you on top of him.

“You don’t have to,” he reminded you, staring straight into your tits rather than your eyes. He jerked forward just a tiny bit when you took him in your hands and raised yourself up enough to position yourself over him.

“Don’t you dare look away,” he grumbled. When he put his hands on your hips, his fingers splayed against your back, helping you, showing you how to move while he looked in your eyes. You braced yourself with your knees on either side of him and one hand planted below his ribs.  “Gods. . .” he breathed harshly.

“I missed you.” You did not know how you managed to say the words, but they were heavy. Inside, it felt like he was touching you in new ways, and perhaps he was. All you knew was your body burned, but your legs were beginning to strain. “Er, Tormund. . .”

Within seconds, he had you on your back again, chest to chest, rocking inside of you so perfectly after an absence so long that you cursed and bit his shoulder. In spite of the winter weather, the room grew stifling hot. You shoved your hand between your bodies, down between your thighs. It was a pleasant flame licking what was already building there, and Tormund did not fail to notice. His thrusts came harder, and the quiet erupted into loud shouts and moans and each of your names rising with the heat.

There were beautiful colours behind your eyelids again, and all you could do as they pulsed and hummed as you felt inside you was hold onto the man responsible. You felt it when his seed spilled inside you. For a few moments, you thought you could feel  _everything_. Beneath you, the ground itself breathed.

You decided that night that you would take the moon tea no more, and you were happy. Tormund, too, was rather pleased with the decision, but you spoke of it to no one else. While you felt satisfied knowing that it simply  _could_  happen, your husband was making plans before you even left Winter Town to go back to the castle. He reckoned that, between the two of you, your babies might be normal-sized rather than tiny, as was his original estimation, and he rattled off a list of names.

“I want a girl called Perla.” He nodded to himself, carrying you through the East Gate. He’d already apologised for not taking the time to get you into shoes before you were taken, and refused to let you walk barefoot ‘like a fucking Hornfoot’. “Another girl called Rula, as my mother.”

“That may work.” You pursed your lips. “I’ve already chosen the name of our first son.”

He looked delighted, rather than affronted, as a typical man may, and jostled you in his arms. “Let’s hear it then.”

You smiled against the shell of his ear. “He’ll be called Torrence Stark.”

Finally in bed, you lay naked again, entwined again, kissing constantly and speaking of what had passed since you’d last seen each other. Rose took her place at your feet, and Tormund finally paid her the attention she fought for, rubbing behind her ear.

“Aye, I’m back, you stupid beast.”

The tensions of war didn’t take long to grip the castle again, and you no longer bothered to join Tormund and Jon in the small council meetings. You didn’t want to hear of anything that would take your family away again. You spent the time with Sansa, instead, having tea in her rooms, or went to Winter Town alone.

On this day, two of the older stable boys walked behind you, pulling barrows filled with apples to the town. The children adored them and said that the only ones that ever grew beyond the Wall were tiny and sour. Two of the women close to your age had taken you into their fold, after your official, by their measure, joining with Tormund. Once the apples were all gone and the boys took the barrows back to the castle, Naiah came for you.

“Enough spoiling them,” she told you, guiding you to the home she shared with Dahild. Both were new mothers, both were widows, and both were formerly husbanded by warriors who’d died fighting your brother at Castle Black.

Dahild was nursing her boy, and Naiah’s slept in his cradle, seemingly unbothered by the bustle of noise around him and outside in the town. “There you are.” She threw scraps of fur and a bone needle at you. “It’s time to try again.”

“I’ve never been good at sewing.” You had learned shortly after being accepted by the two women to show no sheepishness or naivety.

“You’ll learn, for the babe.” Naiah sat beside you on the bench and reached for your hands, positioning them properly. She tutted and smacked your wrist. “No, like  _this_. You aren’t sewing pieces of silk together, these are meant to keep your baby warm. Your stitches should be straight and strong.”

“ _My_  baby?” You smirked and shook your head. The bone needle was stubborn about passing through the hides of the fur. “No, it’s much too soon for that.”

“Isn’t that what you want?” Dahild cracked her own wicked grin, seating herself across the cooking fire from you. “To give the king all the little princes and princesses?”

“You’re mocking me!” You dropped the fur pieces into your lap, laughing quietly as you could manage.

“We chose Tormund to lead after Mance was killed, and he chose  _you_. He’s our strongest and most capable man, and he would never have lost his head over a stupid southern cunt.” Naiah thumped you until you picked up your project again. “It wasn’t our place to choose his wife, but if you’re to be our queen, you’ll need to learn to do things in a way that shows everyone else that you aren’t a stupid southern cunt.”

You scoffed, taking up the needle again. “I’ve never been more grateful to have such supportive friends. I feel so very queenly, so venerated.”

“If we’re your friends, it’s time for you to begin answering questions.” Dahild eyed you seriously as she lay her son down to sleep. “We kept our distance, all of us, when you first came here, and then we kept that distance out of respect for Tormund. Now you’re ours, and I want to know. What is his cock really like?”

“Of course I want to give him all the little princes and princesses, if that’s what you call them,” you said, never missing a beat. You smiled to yourself and continued to press the needle through the furs as the other two women bore holes into you with their staring. “It’s a very easy thing to want, when he makes your eyes roll back in your head.” Gods, it felt almost as good to earn their genuine smiles and that smidgen more of respect.

“We’ve all heard stories.”

“He never fucked a bear. He admitted it.”

Naiah rolled her eyes. “Everyone knows that. And everyone knows what he sounds like when he fucks you. He’s had half a dozen children already, and it won’t be long before he’s put one into you. You were drinking moon tea before, I’ll bet.”

“Aye,” you said freely. “If either of you ever need it and can’t make it yourselves, tell me and I’ll fix the herbs together. Or any other woman, I suppose.”

“You’d have to be drinking it by the gallon, to fight off his seed,” Dahild snickered. “It’s already been far more than a moon. Have you bled?”

“Not yet, but trust me, that’s no unusual thing. After so much moon tea over the course of a year, I’m used to longer cycles. I’m happy to learn these things anyway, though, they will prepare me for the day when my son  _is_  born.” Out of habit, you reached for Naiah’s boy when he began to whimper and rocked the boy by the fire. Children born to the Free Folk were cared for by the entire village, and after finally gaining the last stage of acceptance, you were more than happy to hold an adorable little one. Naiah had shown you how to hold the boy across the length of your arm and jostle him slowly just so, and within mere seconds, he would stop crying, every single time. Soon he was gurgling against you, fighting sleep, but getting there anyway. “Or daughter. He’s chosen at least a dozen names for daughters, now. And no, we won’t be waiting two years to name ours. You’ll have to forgive us of that.”

Neither woman gave any indication it mattered to them. Soon, there was a baby sleeping in your arms as the three of you spoke, and you held him there for a long time, just enjoying his warm weight and his baby scent. After a while, your friends began to inquire about which names you were considering, and speculated on what to name their children, themselves.

“Things are much better here,” Naiah admitted. She rolled her eyes. “Most southerners are still cunts, but. . .I feel like I don’t have to worry, much, about him dying before his second year.”

“He’ll fucking live well beyond that, if I have my say,” you chattered in a sing song voice, noticing that his eyes were open again. He yawned and your heart melted anew.

“For what it is worth, all this taking care of the orphans and promising safety to these that don’t even have names— _that_  is what you should be doing.” Dahild eyed you pointedly. “You’re already doing it, aye, but now all attention really is on what you’re doing. It matters that you show you care about them. It matters very much to Tormund.”

“I don’t want to be like these southern queens you’ve heard of, and it isn’t like being one of those, at all. Both of them are guilty of madly grabbing for power and hardly caring for the people in their charge. I’ve never wished to be queen of anything, let alone a people who need or want no queen, but I’ll be damned if I fail.”

“Yes, you  _will_  be.” Naiah looked toward the open doorway and smirked. “Do you hear that, Giantsbane? Your pretty little southern lady is starting to sound like a real northern queen.”

You tsked at her. “You couldn’t have said anything about him standing there before? And you, why in seven hells are you always coming up behind me and listening in on what I say?”

The Free Folk had a laugh at your expense while you lay the baby back in his cradle, and as soon as you stood, Tormund reached for you. “Give her another year and she’ll be nursing two of my babes while sharpening her spear.”

“So optimistic.” You straightened your back and peered outside to see where the sun set in the sky. It seemed early, still, for him to have come for you.

“Not really,” the other three agreed.

“It never ceases to surprise me, how easily they figure things out in Winter Town, and none at Winterfell have known that we are married.” Tormund settled his hand in the small of your back as you walked.

“You’re joking. We kept all of Winter Town up that night, of course they knew it happened.”

“Even Jon has doesn’t seem to realise. He tried pushing marriage on me like it was a suit of armour.”

You faked a gasp. “Jon asked you to  _marry_  him?”

“Y/N, you only think you’re funny.”

The wine flowed freely that night in the small council chambers, where you gathered to eat with Jon and his most trusted. Normally, meals were never taken there, but with good news came spontaneity, for Jon, anyway, and it was so delightful to see your brother smiling again. Without realising just how freely the wine had flowed into your cup, you were surprised to stand up wobbly when Jon and Tormund finally quit talking.

You didn’t even remember the walk to your chambers or getting into bed, but now you knew you were dreaming. You stood on the other side of the castle walls, wearing the cloak you’d made for yourself, smiling peacefully at the fresh blanket of snow on the ground. The sky was such a clear blue and you could hear Ghost and Rose, chasing and howling at each other, and decided it was a lovely time for a stroll. All around you was purity and beauty, all your heart was singing with joy. You looked around for Tormund, but noticed someone very different indeed.

You stopped dead in your tracks, your eyes growing wide. “Mother?”

She stood in the distance, her own cloak fluttering in the wind. Hardly able to breathe due to the shock, your limbs began to move of their own accord, pumping, running to close the gap between you and Catelyn Stark. You knew her long auburn plait, and you knew, finally, you would have the chance to throw your arms around her one more time. She didn’t move, standing straight and still as a stone, but you thought you could see her gentle smirk, and oh, how you’d longed to see that beautiful smile, just once more.

“Mother, I’m happy,” you shouted as you approached. “I’m so happy, Mother, but oh, I’ve  _missed_  you!”

As you came to her side, all at once, the horrible details became visible to your eyes. You stood in horror, taking in the sight of the bloodless gashes on her face, how her throat was cut almost clean through to the bone. Her skin was pallid and grey, the colour of death, and she stared at you with blank, unloving eyes.

“Oh, Mother,” you whispered, feeling tears upon your cheeks. “Mother, what did they do to you?”

Quick as could be, she thrust her hand forward and into your stomach, and you screamed.

You were still screaming, gripping your abdomen for the searing pain, when you awoke. Sweat on your brow, still crying, you gasped and shrieked at the terror and agony, and heard your husband speak, but could not answer. A sickly, metallic scent filled your nostrils and you felt your belly for blood, but found none. Moving your hand lower, you realised instantly what had taken place. Tormund appeared on your side of the bed, holding a lit candelabra, shouting your name now, and you stared, screaming still, at the blood that stained the bedsheets between your legs.


	6. Chapter 6

 

You were not alone for a single second. When the guards came to the sounds of your panicked screaming, Tormund thundered at them to get the maester, punctuated with threats and curses, and gods  _help_  them if they stopped even to think along the way. Rose sat at the foot of your bed, whimpering, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look at Tormund. All you could do was stare at your bloody hands.

What happened next was vague and smoky in your memory. You remembered the maester speaking, though you didn’t need to listen to know what had happened. You heard Tormund asking a litany of questions from your side, but didn’t want to hear those, either, nor their responses. The maester slipped tiny glass vials into Tormund’s hands, gave grim apologies, and left.

Apologies. When your handmaids entered the room the strip the bed completely and bring in a new mattress, they gave apologies. Tormund had them leave the moment each speck of blood was gone, and got you into a bath himself. You sat in the cooling water now, silent, thinking of nothing, speaking of nothing. He kept trying to talk to you, said your name ceaselessly, but it just didn’t matter.

He sighed after the hour had passed and turned to the direwolf. “Rose, guard the door.”

You squeezed your eyes shut at the sound of her paws click-click-clicking against the stone floors and sat up straight in your bathwater. “Did I do this, Tormund?”

“Do what, love?” Relief radiated off of him in waves and he tried to card his fingers through your wet hair. He kissed your elbow, your shoulder, your nose, your eyes.

“I did this, didn’t I? I was carrying your child and I killed it.”

“ _No_. Y/N—”

Your shaking rippled the ruddy water and you drew up your knees to hug them. “I did it. I did this. Just like I did Smalljon’s baby. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to-to do this to you.”

“ _None of that_.” Tormund reached for drying cloths and pulled you from the water. He rubbed the fabric over you vigorously, though not painfully, to keep you warm. “Y/N, you’ll never speak that way again, do you understand me?” Now, he dressed you in your softest robe and carried you back to bed. “I mourn our child with you, but I won’t stand for another word about it being your fault. Babies are lost in the womb, before you’ve ever realised that they were there, which is all that happened.”

“ _All_?” Your voice was strained and stricken.

He grew quite serious and quite close to your face, locking your eyes together. “Y/N, what I am telling you is that, however much it hurts, however much grieving follows, nearly every woman loses a baby inside her at some point, and it’s not to do with anything that they’ve done. I won’t listen to you lay the blame on yourself. You will say it  _no more_ , now tell me that you’ve understood me.”

“Just give me milk of poppy,” you murmured. Whatever other words he spoke, you would not hear them. All you wanted was the dreamless sleep that the poppy could offer. As you lay in bed, surrendering yourself to slumber, you prayed to the gods to keep your mother away.

 

 

Something within you had changed. The irony of that thought could not bring another tear to your eyes, nor a sardonic smile to your lips. Your womb was empty now, yes, and you could feel that emptiness with all of your being. That was all you could feel, however. Only empty.

You’d sent away your handmaids. You’d sent away the septa. You’d sent away Sansa. Jon. Ser Davos. Even Rose. Even Tormund. He resisted your coldness for days before he finally did leave, and now it had been days more since you’d seen him. Each day passed with you alone in your rooms. You woke, dressed, ate. You sat at the window and stared at nothing outside. At times, you wept, but at others, you wished that you could. The bad feelings from before, the ones that you truly believed conquered, were back, and they clung to you like demons. You refused wine, and most of the time refused milk of the poppy. You held your hand over your belly and imagined. If it had been different, soon you would have known, and told Tormund, and he would be overjoyed, instead of this mess you found yourself in now. You knew it to be unfair to him, knew that, deep down, you’d hurt him more than angered him, but all the same was all the same. There was nothing to offer him, now.

You blinked and remembered the brush in your hand. How long had you been sitting before your mirror? Halfheartedly, you pulled the bristles through the tangles of your hair, and managed only a joyless huff when it remained in place after letting it go. Behind you, the doors creaked open, but you couldn’t muster enough care to look to see who it was.

“Jon or Sansa or Davos or Tormund.” You hated the flat tone of your voice, the hoarse rasp from such disuse. “Leave me.”

“Naiah. . .” Dahild muttered.

“Aye,” the taller woman sighed and placed her hands on your shoulders. “It’s worse than we thought.”

You lowered your head and groaned. “He should  _not_  have told you.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Dahild came to your other side and tutted you before gently starting to work the brush through your knots. “But there are ways a man mourns. He’s been sleeping in Winter Town, which gave away some terrible wrong, and the way he’s been treating the men during training is also a dead giveaway. He can’t even look at any of the children, and at the communal fire, he hardly speaks. He just whittles. We figured either you were dead and no one at Winterfell was willing to tell us or you lost a babe.”

“I should be alone,” you said slowly. Having so soon won the friendship of these two women, you didn’t want to offend them, but you still felt unable to be in the presence of others. “. . .What has he done to the men?”

Dahild began to chuckle deviously. “There are more than a few busted lips and noses. Poor Elris. . .remember how his arm flopped?”

Naiah joined her in laughter and bowed down to look at herself in the mirror beside you. “Probably Tormund will stop crushing the lads once you come to him tonight.”

“Oh, I can’t—”

“Aye, you can. Just wait until you see what he’s done to Gurran. It’s time you made peace before he does permanent damage.”

“Dahild, please, I’ve asked him to leave me be for now—”

“Aye, aye.” She rolled her eyes heavily. “He may’ve given you what you wanted, but don’t expect it from us. You’re ours, as well. He’s our leader, and he’s meant to be with you now, and you won’t allow it. You have had your days of sitting around in your fancy castle by yourself. Now you help your people by letting your people help you. Naiah, you brought the clothes?”

“I have. Oh, before we leave.” Naiah reached inside of her pack and pulled out a large medallion on a gold chain. The medallion was in the shape of a giant tear drop with a great opal in the middle. Astounded, you swept your hair out of the way, touched it, and admired it in the mirror. Both women smiled to each other and then at your reflection. “This belonged to the wife of Mance Rayder. It’s time you wear it ‘round your neck and become one of us.”

“It is  _beautiful_ ,” you breathed, watching the colours within the opal sparkle and change. “Why are you giving me this?”

“It’s called the Tear of the Flame. Make sure Tormund sees it, tonight.” Without any further fanfare, your friends each tucked an arm around your shoulders and easily drew you up to stand.

“First, you’ll have a bath. You look a sad sight, even by our standards.”

“I  _am_  a sad sight,” you contended. “Tormund may not wish to see me, and I am still—”

“You are still queen and he is still king and you’ll do well to remember that you do all things together. All things.” Dahild tilted her head toward yours. “Free women know well the pain of losing a babe. We have prayed for you and the little one lost. We’ve prayed for Tormund.”

“ _And_  we’ve prayed for your future children, your health, going on and on. But prayers don’t do a damn thing if you don’t put in the work, and we’re putting in our work.”

They led you to the partially underground hot springs bathing pools meant for noble guests.

“I am not  _work_ ,” you protested. You blinked and gasped sharply when they began to undress you. “I did not know you meant to bathe me yourselves!”

Naiah smirked at you and started to shrug out of her own clothing. “You southern ladies.”

“At least I’m not a cunt anymore,” you scoffed, covering your body with your hands.

Dahild laughed so loud that it echoed off the stones. “Oh, nooo, another girl will see you  _naked_!”

“You know there’s girls that fuck  _each_   _other_!” Naiah teased.

“I have had two husbands, and they are the only people who’ve ever seen me naked. Here, you’re never supposed to be seen naked by anyone  _but_  your husband!” You walked into the waters with them without further argument, however; these women were your friends, your people, and would allow no harm to come your way. You believed them, that they wanted to prevent Tormund from smashing any more arms, legs, and teeth.

“Gods. . .” Dahild dipped her head back into the water to wet it. “Even the caves weren’t so nice. All right. Y/N, have you quit cramping?”

You sobered a bit. “Mostly. There’s still a phantom twinge now and then.”

“Did you. . .” Naiah took a flat, volcanic stone from her pack and began to lightly scrub your skin. Her eyes flicked down pointedly and then back to yours. “Birth a. . .?”

“Ahh, no.” You pulled your hair to the other side of your neck so she could work on your shoulder. The heat of the water  _was_  refreshing, and having the company of friends who didn’t constantly voice their pity even lifted your spirits some. “The maester told me that I hadn’t come far along enough to expel anything but tissues and blood. No little bean shapes, he said, or little bodies.”

“Now  _that_  is a true blessing.” Dahild sat on your other side with a stone of her own. “Sometimes, the babes we form within ourselves are not meant for life. The ones who never take true shape, they never have the chance to do so. We believe the gods have not breathed life into them, yet.”

“But it’s still. . .I still lost his child.” You smashed your hand through your sullen reflection and shook it off.

“It is saddening, aye, unfortunate, aye, but it is not the end, Y/N. You and Tormund live on, and you desire each other, and you’re mad for each other, and on this night, you will conceive him another child.” Dahild smiled at you as she spoke.

“How do you think I’ll manage that? Maester Guymon told me I  _may_  be able to conceive later this year, if I’m gentle with myself.”

The other women looked to each other and laughed again. “A  _man_  knows nothing about the magic of our bodies. Get that flask from the bag and drink.”

“Oh no,” you crossed your arms over your chest. “Tell me what’s in your potion and you tell me now if it’s that revolting milk.”

“Unicorn root, red clover, leaves of the red berry, wild honey, and a few other things. It’ll make you fecund.”

You eyed them both warily while you sipped, earning yourself another round of laughter.

“No one will stick their fingers in your minge. ‘Cept Tormund.”

You shook your head and finished drinking. The other women spoke about fertility and injuries, scrubbing their own skin after they were done with you.

When you finished the tea, you replaced the flask and waded deeper into the spring water. “You know,” you said, drenching your hair in the hot water, “down south, they call it a pussy.”

 

 

 

Before they walked you back to Winter Town for the night, Naiah tossed your dress in the water and produced different clothing for you to wear from the bag the women had brought. They were much the same as the furs most of the Free Folk women wore, although they both made sure to tell you again and again how much finer and well-made they were. Dahild used a bone comb to smooth out your hair, no matter how you yelped for her to stop, and now you approached the communal fire together.

It was the first time in your life you’d been outside the castle walls with your hair hanging down, unadorned, and you felt like an imposter. When you voiced these fears, you were mostly ignored, but Naiah  _did_  reach down your shirt to pull out your medallion.

“Trust us,” they simply said, for perhaps the thousandth time since you’d met them.

When you saw Tormund, you took a deep breath and braced yourself. He did look intimidating, and he was still whittling, his knife-work furious. “I’ve never seen him this way,” you whispered to Naiah.

She pushed you on the back solidly. “Go fix it.”

You stumbled and mouthed curses at her, and damn if you could have just blended  _in_. You could feel the eyes of everyone present on you, but Tormund kept whittling while you took a seat beside him. The lull in the story being told ended and things returned to a relative normalcy. An hour passed and more logs were added to the fire, flasks were passed around, food was shared. Each time you shot a panicked glance toward Naiah, she would smile knowingly and nod.

“Aye, I’ve got a story to tell,” Tormund said when someone complained about the quiet. He stooped a bit more, pushed his knees further apart, but put aside the knife and crude wooden toy he’d made. “None of you have ever heard the tale of how I took your queen from the Umber castle.” His knee pressed against yours, as did his elbows as he brought his hands in together. You and everyone around you knew that he was about to lie through his teeth, but you lay your head on his shoulder and prepared to nod your way along.

“That cunt lord, Smalljon Umber, he stole Y/N Stark, her baby brother, Rickon, and a proud free woman who once served in Mance’s army—as many of us have. What was her name, Y/N?”

“She was called Osha, and she was my friend.”

Tormund squeezed your thigh, still looking out over his rapt audience. “You see? She was prepared to be a free woman herself after meeting just one of our own. Her father gave her a direwolf when she was fourteen. That one, over there, not the white one. She named the beast after a mighty warrior of the south. When the Umber took her, he took her to one of these seven gods, and he took a blood sacrifice to bind her to him by her very soul.”

At some of the more outrageous parts, you had to chew on your lips or press your face against his shoulder to keep from laughing, but he never seemed to mind.

“. . .Jon Snow, sailing back from Hardhome, told me of this palace where his sister was locked away forever with that great ogre of a man, guarded by serpent men. . .”

“. . .The Valemen brought her to me from Last Hearth and she told me that I’d broken the spell by spilling Umber’s blood. . .”

“. . .I mean, look at her, imagine THOSE lips telling you to make a free woman of her. . .”

By the end of his story, you were sitting in his lap and he had used you as a sort of puppet several times, but you weren’t expecting it when he scooped his arms behind your neck and knees and stood.

“Now, if you’ll excuse us,” he winked. “I’ve got a queen to fuck.”

Now you did laugh, to hide the intense blush that ran from your hairline all the way down your neck. Walking along, he looked down at you and chuckled huskily. “They can’t see you now.”

“I can still hear them,” you groaned, covering your eyes. “Don’t they know you’re a liar and a tall-talker?”

“Most of them,” he agreed, “but most of them just care about being entertained, and you’re one of their favourite subjects. They all love hearing about the prim and proper lady who spread her legs for one of theirs.”

You struggled to hit him, but shared his reckless laughter. “Naiah told me I look very much like a wildling queen.”

“I thought she may have had something to do with this.” He looked up and down your body demonstratively. “It’ll be better when she tells you that you look like a queen of the Free Folk.”

“You see, you tell me you fuckers aren’t clever. . .”

“She wouldn’t waste the time of day on you if she didn’t like you, and you’d know for sure if any of them hated you.” Tormund took you inside and let you go, and all the smiles from the tall-talking were gone. “What you did was good for them.”

“I want to be good for them.” You bit your lip again. “Tormund. . .”

He shook his head. “Just tell me what you want and I’ll try to give it to you.”

“Was it you that broke that Thenn’s nose?”

“I’ve done a lot. Takes your mind to different places. Beating, maiming, killing Thenns, it’s like being back in the Frostfangs.”

“Breaking his nose is one thing, killing him is another.”

“You say that now, but wait until you’ve killed one.”

“I’m sorry,” you said softly. “Truly.”

Tormund tucked you against his chest wordlessly and held you there for a long time. When you tried pulling away, he gripped you even tighter to himself and forced you still. “It’s hard to lose a baby. Harder still to lose a child. I helped Mance bring tribes together, including those fucking cave people. I climbed the Wall more times than I remember. I fought and lost at Castle Black, got taken prisoner by people my people have hated for thousands of years. I fought at Hardhome, where I saw things I won’t tell you because I don’t want to and because you won’t let me. I fought in the Battle of the Bastards with your brother. I think I was more afraid, or more helpless, maybe, to see you so afraid.”

You closed your eyes and breathed in deep the way he always smelled, the smell of trees and rain. “I’ve made you helpless. I’ve not been a good wife.”

“Horse shit. I won’t hear you say it again. Good mothers give a shit about their babies.”

“Good fathers, too.”

“Are you still in pain?”

You sat at the edge of the bed he’d made, where you became his wife, and watched him build a fire. You smiled at his back. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. I stopped bleeding quickly enough. The maester told me I can’t conceive another baby for months, but Naiah and Dahild seem to think that I could tonight.”

Tormund grew so still, you knew he wasn’t breathing. “It’s a common belief that if the pain is gone and the moon is low, you can—Y/N, I’ll fuck you until winter ends and comes again, but it won’t replace the baby we lost.”

“Is that you attempting to combine my house words with your house words? ‘Let’s fuck forever’ and ‘Winter is coming’?” You lay back and blinked at the greying wooden ceiling. “Whatever they had me drink, they told me it would help us have another baby, but all it’s doing is. . .”

Tormund laughed harder than you’d heard him in a while and raked pitch from the fire through his wild hair. His eyes were brightened and full of life once more and his heavy laughter made it difficult to stand. “Let me guess.” He stood between your knees and gave them both a squeeze. “You feel like all the blood in your head has reached right about here.”

You gasped and sat up on your elbows. “What did they do?”

“They gave you what they said they did,” he assured you gently, working his hand inside the pants they’d given you. “They just didn’t mention it makes you slick as a baby seal after a while.”

The softest graze of his fingertip against you sent you mewling. “Oh, those cunts.”

 

 

 

As the weeks passed, the deep feelings of emptiness and despair began to dampen. You reflected often on your choice to abort Smalljon’s child, even discussing it once with Tormund.

“I knew it was what I wanted to do,” you’d said. It was dark in your rooms, the sky overcome with clouds, and a few candles cast flickering light along your bodies. “I knew I couldn’t let him win that victory. He conquered my will and my mind and my body, but that didn’t mean I had to allow him any more than I’d needed to do to stay alive. It was too bad that he found out about it.”

For once, Tormund kept a relative calm. Normally, where Smalljon emerged as a topic, he was ready for blood. Instead, he moved his fingers lightly over your skin, giving you gooseflesh. “You said he beat you bloody for it.”

You’d just smiled and nodded, your arms crossed. “Aye, he beat me, and he was good at giving a beating, but the wretched little bean he put inside me is still buried near the godswood, and I am healed and living the life of my choosing. Let him beat me, it changed nothing, and I would have kept doing it. I remember I felt strange, melancholy for a while. Not the desolation I’ve felt of late.”

You still managed to convince yourself once or twice a day that you had caused the death of this very much wanted baby, but, with time, it grew easier to assuage those feelings on your own. You treated your body well. You limited your wine to meals only, and three glasses per day, maximum. It wasn’t until then that you realised how alcohol had contributed to the depression. With no more sightings of Mother in your dreams, you became well enough to receive regular visitors, go about your own duties, and accompany Tormund at Winter Town. That was where the secrets grew longer.

Naiah and Dahild both spoke as though you were already pregnant again, and you understood it to be their culture, that they meant no harm by it, but it still was not easy to hear. It was harder still to see their babies, which filled you with guilt. You couldn’t blame your friends for having healthy sons, but you devoted your attention to Free Folk who needed you more, now.

When that didn’t work either, you decided you might as well see Tormund in the training yards. Your belly was beginning to pinch from hunger, but it was negligible enough that you could wait for him to finish up. You leaned up against one of the log piles and tried to keep out of the way.

Dim came along and stood beside you, wiping off his blade with a dirty rag. “If he sees you here, it’ll distract him.”

You smirked and turned to him. “And a fine day to you as well, Dalba. It’s good to see that you’re still going.”

The elderly wildling spat on the ground and continued to polish his weapon. “Have you ever seen him fight before?”

“No,” you shook your head, unable to take your eyes off of your growling, slashing man. “Only sparring, like this. I’ve heard stories, though. Jon told me.”

“Snow doesn’t know the half of what Tormund’s done. Not a smidgeon. How come you aren’t out there, learning to be a real spearwife?”

You cocked your head at him. “I hope you’re not saying—”

“If I were, I’d say it.” Dim handed his blade over to you. “Nay, not like  _that_. You’ve never held a sword in your life, have you?”

“Tormund’s only given me lessons with a bow, but we normally don’t get very far into the lessons without having a roll in the hay.” You laughed with the old man and impressed him with your remarkable ability to fail.

“What about your father? Your brothers? Snow? Smallcock Umber? No one ever taught you to fight, much less defend yourself?” Dim scoffed and bent your elbow for you. “There. Lunge at the logs.”

“The key to keeping women subservient in the Seven Kingdoms is insisting that they cannot possibly defend themselves, that they need their fathers and brothers and uncles and cousins and husbands to defend them. Like this?”

“No,  _lunge_. Picture some cunt you don’t like and send ‘em to their grave. Go for the kidneys or the neck. Does that look like the kidneys or the neck?”

You tossed the sword back at him. “It looks like a fucking pile of logs!”

“She’ll learn, old grandpa.” Tormund called. “Y/N?”

You smiled to ease the discomfort hidden behind all the dirt on his face. “Don’t stop for me. You can meet me later, I should be going.”

“Horse shit. Wait here.” He walked around the paddock. He grabbed a flask of water along the way and took a deep drink before pouring the rest of it over his head. “Y/N,  _wait_.”

Dim shrugged at you and left you there, taking up Tormund’s post of barking orders at the fighting men and women. You admired that about this culture. The old and young were valued equally, as were the women. One day, it was quite possible that you would be able to swing a sword, and none of your people would try to stop you. You smiled at the thought.  _Your_  people. Your real people.

“How could you’ve done it?”

The voice behind you made you freeze, then scramble for the sword again. A hand fell onto your forearm, a hand big enough to cover almost all of it.

You looked at Smalljon with your eyes wide and shook your head slowly.

“How could you’ve done it?” he repeated, so tall, surrounding you completely. “You’re  _my_  wife, not some wildling’s whore. I’ll kill him this time, and I’ll take you back.”

“Y/N, have you seen that little fucker that ran off with me gloves yesterday?” Tormund asked, digging through his pack. He was taken aback by seeing you so stricken and fearful. “Y/N? What is it?”

Although you weren’t looking anymore, refused to, you could still feel Smalljon’s breath, feel his hand on your arm. “I-I-I. . .”

“Y/N?” Tormund rushed to you now, still bloody and filthy from a full afternoon of bashing skulls together. When he touched your hair, the phantom hand on your arm disappeard, and when you looked, there was no one there at all. No huge footprints in the mud beside you.

You still couldn’t speak. Panic and adrenaline flooded your body, and you wanted to cry, but would never do so among your people, not where they could see. All this madness of what you saw in your dreams were only dreams, but this? This was actual madness. . .

“All right, that’s it.” Tormund lifted you up in his arms for the thousandth time and marched with purpose toward Winterfell. “To the maester.”

“N-no, that’s quite unnecessary.” You shook your head and smiled nervously. “I’m just tired, Tormund. Could you just take me to rest before supper?”

His brows knitted together, but with a few more steps, he nodded. “Aye, if that’s what you want, but I’m sending Mila to fetch the old man if your colour still isn’t right after you’ve woken up.”

“There’s a sport,” you whispered against his neck. The place where Smalljon’s hand had been burned. “And by the gods, Tormund, take a bath.”


	7. Chapter 7

 

You dreamed of Riverrun. You dreamed of being a girl, or rather watching yourself, as a girl, riding on your great-uncle Brynden’s wide shoulder, laughing with abandon. The love you felt for him radiated a soft, butter yellow, muting the colours of your dress, peppering his laughter as well. You smiled as you watched him load you onto a canoe, Robb running up behind you, Theon bringing up the rear. The Blackfish rowed himself, taking no servants on your little expedition, and told all of you wide-eyed children the history of his ancestral home.

You heard footfalls approaching from behind, and, upon turning, gasped, fingers touching your lips. Your mother and father walked side by side all the way to the dock and watched as their children went by on the great blue river.

“Ned,” Mother said, slipping her arm in his. “I shouldn’t let him take her on these little journeys. He always fills her head with stories of killing and knights and battle. She pushed Robb in the mud just yesterday.”

“All siblings fight,” Father replied. “She’s an adventurous spirit, it’ll never do to take it from her. She’s a wolf. One can train a wolf, one can even break a wolf, but they’ll never be tamed.”

“I will  _never_  see her broken.”

“Cat,” Father looked at her, dissatisfied. “His family has been pledged to the Starks for hundreds and hundreds of years.”

You stepped closer to your parents, curiosity burning in your chest. They didn’t seem to notice you, so you moved even closer.

“Oh, Ned, I was even older than Y/N when I was promised to your brother,” Mother protested. “Is it not too soon?”

“She won’t be married for years still, Cat. Your father agrees that he makes a good choice.”

“Father also agreed to marrying Lysa to Jon Arryn. A good match, aye, but Jon’s as old as Father.”

“Cat.” Father shifted to face her fully. “It isn’t the Greatjon. She’s not so different from Smalljon, in age, and the Umbers will never break allegiance. Greatjon is happy to wait until she’s a woman. She’ll be Lady of Last Hearth, she’ll have strong, strapping boys—grandchildren, Cat.”

“Ned, the  _Wildlings_.” You watched your mother grip Father’s arm tightly and demand his gaze. “They come across the Wall and they take whatever they want. Do you not think they would be thrilled to take Lord Eddard Stark’s little girl, rape her—”

“Umbers have fought the Wildlings since there were Umbers,” Father shot back. “When he was nine and she was four, he walked right up to me and said she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. Greatjon could have died there, laughing. Smalljon is a good lad, with a good humour and a fine fighter. I’ll be honoured to call him son one day, and you should be, as well.”

“I don’t want her to grow anymore,” Mother said, tears in her voice. “It seems as though only yesterday, she was as tiny as Arya, and she needed me.”

“Oh, she still needs you. She’ll be needing you even more when she’s a married woman with your little Umber grandchildren. She’ll send you a hundred ravens, and there you’ll be, right beside her, happy that Smalljon is the lad we matched her with.” In a rare show of public affection, you saw your father kiss Mother’s hair. “Do not worry, Cat.”

All throughout the conversation, you had listened with bated breath. Now, your heart crushed in your chest, you reached to your father and gripped his cloak. With a slight jump, he looked back, as if he knew you were there.

“Please,” you rasped, tears running free from your eyes. “Father, no!”

The image faded. You could no longer feel the fabric of his cloak grasped in your hand, and the world turned to black. In spite of the distress, you could feel yourself coming about to a pleasant feeling. It tingled in your scalp and moved down the back of your neck. You heard the crunch of something crisp, smelt a ripened apple, and opened your eyes.

Tormund continued stroking your hair with one hand, waved his apple at you with the other, and grinned, mouth still full of fruit. “There she is.”

You squinted at him and chuckled. “What in the world? Why are you here?”

“I told Mila to send me a signal whenever you lay down to rest so I can come back to the castle and watch you.”

“That is. .  .perhaps a bit unsettling.”

“I don’t care.”

You laughed again and settled back against his side. He was so good at moving you while you slept without you ever realising. “Oh, I know that you don’t care. Just thought you ought to know.”

Tormund stuffed his apple into your cleavage and crawled down the bed, pushing you onto your back. “There you are, my little one.”

“You—you  _animal_!” You took the apple from between your breasts and tossed it aside, but he made no indication he heard. The look on his face was enough to erase any of your anger, however, and you held patiently still while he gazed at your belly with a look of such fondness and love that it melted your heart as if it were butter. The kisses that came next caused a fluttering in your chest.

“Do you know what your Papa did today?” He nuzzled your belly now, tickling you. “Your Mama wouldn’t want me to say to innocent, young ears, but I crushed a man’s—”

“Your mother  _doesn’t_  want for innocent, young ears to hear,” you told your belly.

“Aye, she’s a nutter.” Tormund wrapped his arm around your lower back and nestled himself there, his face pressed into your dress, kissing occasionally. “Did you know you’re the most important soul in this entire world? I need you to hurry up and grow. I want to hold you in my arms.”

You took to stroking your husband’s hair while he continued to speak his words of adoration. Ever since you told him you’d missed a flowering, he’d been at it. Some days, you thought he may be talking to the babe inside you more than he did to you. A new energy had possessed him, and although you’d forbidden him saying a word to anyone just yet, he walked around with a permanent grin and rushes of excitement. “I love you, Ginger Giant.”

“And I  _love_  you. Look at you. Look at this belly. I can already see it and feel it. Oh, there’s a great big bugger in there already.” He pushed up your dress to feel the tiny bump and see it uncovered. “Look at this little fucker. Aye, I’ll be pushing your Mama around in a wheelbarrow before too long.”

With a gentle roll of your eyes, you struck him lightly at the back of his head. “You are a loving and sweet Papa, but I’ve got to feed this great big fucker you’ve put in me.”

“You promised, Y/N.”

“I know!” You pushed your dress back down and reached for him. “I want my love now, and then we shall go and speak with them.”

He leaned over you, his hand still covering the warm place where his child grew, and kissed you as hard and deep as he liked. It was so much easier to forget, or at least to put your worse thoughts away, now. Ever since you told him of your pregnancy, although you were petrified of miscarrying again and of your dreams and waking visions, the purity of his joy made you feel strong again. Your strength derived from each other, he’d told you once.

“Remember when I first told you I wanted babies?” Tormund asked.

“Let me think.” You smirked. “Aye. You were drunk off your ass in the godswood and angry because you wanted tiny wee babes and terrible, mean, AWFUL me wouldn’t give them to you.”

“I loved you then, and I’ve loved you since, and I’ll love you ‘til I die, and I would’ve always loved you, babies or no, but now that you’re the mother of my child. . .” He trailed kisses all the way to your ear. “He’s mine,  _you’re_  mine. . .”

You shivered, your heart thumping wildly. “If you don’t plan on doing something about it, you’d better stop.”

He nuzzled your neck and then started pulling you from the bed. “Come then. My wife and child need to eat and I get to tell Jon Snow that I’ve fucked a red-haired bastard into his sister.”

“You will  _not_!” You howled with laughter in spite of yourself, holding onto the bedpost nearest to you. It was a mistake, of course, for now he wouldn’t stop.

“Oh, but I will! The boy knows how it’s done, and one day our babies will have pouty Jon Snow cousins to play with and they’ll run about in the dirt and kick the shit out of each other.”

You went behind your changing screen only to have him follow you. You shook your head and reached for the dress you’d chosen specifically for this night. You  _had_  promised that he could announce the first in a long line of children to your brother and sister once you’d missed two moon flowers, and he  _had_  been silent on the matter, if inane and animatedly delighted all the time. Without needing to be asked, he helped you change. “You will not say the word bastard to Jon, it bothers him. It doesn’t matter if you think it shouldn’t, it does. It’s been the thing that’s hurt him most in this life and this night is to be a celebration,  _not_  a duel between my brother and husband.”

“They don’t even know we married,” he remarked, pressing the bastard matter no further.

“Well, I doubt they would consider us married. You  _are_  prepared for what will happen, aren’t you?”

“What, saying words in the godswood? Who gives a shit?” Tormund held your shoulders and kissed you again.

“It will mean very much to them, and it’ll mean very much to a lot of people who aren’t as comfortable with the idea of your people living south of the Wall.”

“ _Our_  people. That baby inside you is one of  _our_  people, too.”

“I know, Ginger Giant,” you whispered. “How long have you been watching me rest?”

“Don’t worry about it! I watch you all the time, now, I can’t help it. I thought you were beautiful before, now I can think of no prettier sight. Well, when your belly grows bigger. . .Your body is changing and you’ve been ill. I want to look over you.”

“There’s nothing more admirable,” you told him gently, lowering your voice as you walked through the corridors. Jon and Sansa were waiting. Tormund’s infectious delight and excitement grasped you tight, and you took his hand. “And I swear, once we speak with my brother and sister, you can run straight to Winter Town and all the way to the Gift and shout it the entire way.” You stood outside the family dining hall and listened to your siblings’ voices.

“Snow!” Tormund hollered, pulling you into the room. “And Sansa.”

As requested, the meal was limited to the four of you. Sansa motioned for you to sit beside her, but you shook your head just slightly and sat across from her, beside your husband. Wisely, you pressed your hand over his mouth before he could say horrible, indecent things.

“Hello, darlings,” you greeted them brightly.

“Hello to you,” Jon smiled and poured wine for you. “I haven’t seen you much lately, but you’re looking in better form.”

“You look  _lovely_ ,” Sansa assured you, digging her elbow into Jon’s arm. “Tormund, how are you?”

Your husband grinned and set his elbow on the table. “Sansa, I’m fucking  _terrific_.”

By now, your sister was so accustomed to him that she laughed easily.

“Dear hearts, I feel like I should tell you why we’ve asked you to meet with us before he explodes into a million pieces.” You could practically feel Tormund vibrating beside you.

“I made her my wife when we came back from the south,” he interjected.

Jon and Sansa both wore expressions of light surprise and amusement.

“Ah, well, we’re quite happy for you.” Jon raised his glass.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sansa asked with a whiny pitch in her voice, but there was genuine happiness in her eyes.

You grinned down at your lap, then looked at Tormund. “We didn’t ask you here because we were married all those moons ago. . .”

Sansa gasped so loudly it was almost a shriek, and she stood, hands clapping. “You’re going to have a baby!”

You pulled your handkerchief from your sleeve, nodding and unable to speak. Your moods were afflicted more now than they had been, and crying was something you did throughout each day.

“Aye,” Tormund nodded, standing up himself. “I’m going to be a papa—and she’s going to be the mama!”

“Oh, of course she is, you idiot!” Sansa raced around the table and threw her arms about him, then moved to you, then back to Tormund. “Oh my gods, we haven’t had news this good in so long!”

After a short period of shock, Jon rose, his features lightened and happy. Once Sansa went back to you again for hugs and kisses to your cheek, he pulled Tormund into a brotherly embrace. “Congratulations, and a belated welcome to our family. I should’ve known why you’ve been grinning like an idiot.”

“I have been!” Tormund confirmed exuberantly, clapping Jon’s shoulder several times. “She wouldn’t let me say anything, or I would’ve. Y/N wanted to be sure this time that it was safe. The little fucker’s taken root.”

“What he means to say is that we have waited long enough to share this. The child will survive.” You touched your belly, as you did a thousand times a day.

Sansa sat on the other side of you and moved in to lean against your shoulder. “I’m going to be an auntie! Oh, I’ve got to start sewing clothes  _now_ , and you’ll be sewing with me! You must learn how to do it properly. Oh, I can design a brocade pattern for a blanket, and I can use some of my softest scrap fabrics to make swaddling and quilts!”

Honestly, for a time, you felt happier for Sansa than for yourself. Sansa’s usual sombre mood was now bright as polished silver. You smiled and stroked her cheek. “You know, when you were born, I thought you were to be  _my_  baby. . .”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard that story a million times. I’m not little, I won’t try and steal your baby like you did, I’m just so happy. Oh, I wonder what they will look like. . .”

“Let’s talk while we eat,” you suggested.

Your sister jumped up again and walked around the table to take up her fork and knife. “Yes, of course. You must eat more, sister! You have a little Giantsbane baby growing within you now. I bet,” Sansa leaned in closer, lowering her voice so the men who were still conversing exuberantly couldn’t hear, “that you will have a son who looks just like him, born with a big red beard and a sword. He’ll come out of you fighting.”

“I certainly hope that he doesn’t.”

“Do you want a boy? Or a girl?”

You shook your head. “It doesn’t matter. My children won’t be leaders unless the Free Folk choose them to be leaders, and they choose men and women in equal turn.”

Sansa’s fork fell from her hand. All traces of her previous happiness had been erased, replaced with anger and fear. Disgust, almost. “What do you mean?”

The heat in her voice halted the men’s conversation, and they turned their attentions back to the table. Jon frowned. “Sansa?”

“She said that her children are Free Folk,” your sister explained. Her brows arched sharply downward and she slammed her palms to the table’s surface. “Y/N, your children are Starks.”

“My children are free Starks.” You reached out and grabbed at Tormund’s hand. You needn’t look at him to sense the anger that thundered through him. “It’s our decision how to raise our children, Sansa,  _not yours_. I hope I shall never have to say these words to you again.”

She shook her head. “I love you both, but once news spreads to the Umbers that you’ve been gallivanting in Wildling clothes and have a Wildling husband and carry a child you intend to raise as a Wildling, there will be an open revolt. We’ve just united the North and we can’t afford to lose them.”

You speared your fork into the table, your breath coming in harshly. “I don’t belong to you and I don’t belong to the Umbers. This is  _my_  child,  _Tormund_  is my husband, the Free Folk  _are_  my people, and if the remaining few Umbers want to ride against our forces as traitors again—”

“I’ll crush them, one by one, again,” Tormund finished, voice dripping with disdain and vitriol.

“We will not have a war in our home!” Jon shouted. His voice boomed and echoed off the stone walls and brought instant silence to the room. “And we will not do war with the Umbers, either. All of this talk must cease  _now_. We are family, each of us. Sansa, he is your brother.”

“I don’t deny that!” Your younger sister cried. “You’ve all misunderstood me. I care no more that he’s a Wildling than she does, but many others do, and the Umbers will never make peace with the Wildlings and they  _already_  blame Tormund for Smalljon’s death, which of course is what happened, and they believe Y/N’s rightful place is at Last Hearth. I’m only saying what will happen.”

“No, you just do well at covering your tracks, you always have. You were upset that I wouldn’t be here at Winterfell with you anymore.”

“Y/N, Sansa, please.” Jon held Tormund by the shoulder to still him. “The Umbers have got to learn that they can no longer hold a blood feud with the Free Folk. They have lands of their own to work, they’ve no need to bother Castle Umber and vice versa.” He turned to his friend. “You’ve told them not to, haven’t you?”

Tormund’s lip twitched. “I’ve told them to be  _ready_ , boy.”

The room grew still under an uncomfortable blanket of silence. You brought out your handkerchief again and started to mop up your tears, and Sansa held your free hand from across the table.

“Right,” Jon said at last, nodding to the fire. He raised his chin and locked eyes with Tormund. “Remember when I asked if you’d marry her by law?”

Tormund sneered. “You think that’s going to stop it, Snow? I told you the day will come, and it will.”

“It will show them the way things  _are_ ,” Jon contended, finger pointed at his friend. “They ride already for Winterfell, along with the Karstarks, the Manderlys, the Macens, and Lyanna Mormont. Here is what I propose, and what I hope the two of you will consider seriously as a way to ease as much tension as possible and make my life much simpler. In a few weeks, they will all be here, celebrating Y/N’s twentieth year of life, drinking our wine, stuffing their faces, and in a jocular sort of mood. All I ask is we give them a  _surprise_ , if you will, ask them to join us in the godswood and I’ll perform a marriage ceremony then and there.”

You met eyes with your husband, who nodded. “We assumed you would wheedle us into marrying ‘properly’, so we’ve already prepared for this. We agree.”

Sansa looked at all of you as if you were mad. “But that isn’t enough time for me to make the bride’s cloak.”

“We don’t keep the new gods. . .” you said slowly.

“It isn’t about the old gods or the new gods, it’s the symbolism. And it’s lovely. When he places the marriage cloak on your shoulders, that shows everyone that you’re under  _his_  protection now,” she explained.

You looked to Tormund. “What do you think?”

His shoulders rose into a shrug. ”I’ve told you, I’m not terribly interested in anything other than getting it over with. If Sansa wants to make a cloak, let her. I’ll put it on you.”

“Well, the problem I’m running into is that the cloak is traditionally decorated in the colours and sigils of the groom’s house.”

He shrugged again. “House Giantsbane, House Who-Gives-A-Shit.”

“You say that now, but—oh, whatever. Sansa, orange and black. A tiger, like the one I put on  _his_  cloak. That’s simplest.”

“A tiger is simple?”

Jon began to rap his wine cup against the table until the two of you shut up. “Are we through being angry? Can we let one night be simple? Can it be enough?”

You and your sister watched him with purse lips for a moment, then turned back to each other. “You watched me do that tiger over and over. I’ll help you with the damn thing. It was your idea!”

“But a  _tiger_?”

“He likes them!” You cracked a grin and pulled your fork out of the table. “We can just do orange with the black stripes down the back.”

“Well,  _maybe_  if he were just a Wildling, but he’s a  _king_. We need to make them understand that without question,” Sansa contended, lifting her water glass. “If you wanted an orange animal, why didn’t you just choose a fox?”

“Because he  _likes_  tigers, Sansa!” You repeated.

Tormund glanced at Jon, pointing at you. “Is this what they were like before?”

Jon rolled his eyes and nodded. “So. Tigers?”

“I’m sorry,” you said to Tormund later that night. The two of you were stretching your legs on the battlements and taking in the cool air, something the maester had suggested you do regularly. When he looked quickly from left to right, you squeezed his hand. “I just mean that I’m sorry that the conversation did not stay as pleasant as we’d hoped.”

“Oh, no, I expected worse. I just didn’t want you to worry about it.” He looked over at the soft lights of Winter Town. “It’ll go well with them. I ought to prepare you for it. When Mance told us Dalla was expecting, I was drunk for three straight days. We went through more food than we should’ve, lost our focus for a few days, but he’d never had one before, ever, that I knew of.”

“Did they really call her queen?”

“Aye. Dalla was a good woman. She loved him, she gave him good counsel, she was there for him, always. We’re not afraid of our women. We need them. When you’re the leader of a hundred warring clans and tribes, you need your woman very much. You know how I talk with you. Do you understand?” Tormund leaned down and tucked your cloak tighter around you.

“You think that I’m a good wife, too?”

“Aye, but they call you their queen for the same reasons they did Dalla. They aren’t calling you that for me.”

“You’ve always been so wonderful about telling me these things.” When he opened his arms, you gladly fell into the embrace. “All the time, I feel like an imposter that they surely must despise. Are they not angry that you chose  _me_? I mean, I know you’re free to make your own choices, but what I represent.

“Shut up, no.” He tilted his head, his curiosity renewed. “I meant to ask you about what you were dreaming about. Earlier. When you called me unsettling.”

You were careful to hide your trepidation. Since you dreamt that first horrid dream with your undead mother murdering the child inside you, you had not spoken of any of your dreams, at least not in detail. You avoided thinking about them at all, convinced you were going mad. “What about it?”

He looked at you a long moment, a muted exasperation clear in his expressive eyes. “You—huh?” He moved you aside gently and looked out through the distance. Without turning back to you, he cleared his throat. “Y/N, go and get your brother.  _Just_  Jon.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not anyone we were expecting and much too soon.”

There weren’t many of them, but after standing still for a while, you began to see what your husband had seen come riding for Winterfell. “Tormund, the gates!”

He kissed your forehead and pushed you gently. “Go. Snow. Just Snow. Go.”

“What, you speak in rhyme now?” you called over your shoulder.

He answered with his loudest and longest scoff yet.

Jon argued for you to return to your rooms, but you refused. “There can’t be more than ten of them, I don’t think. You named me Lady of Winterfell and I have every right to see who’s come to my home.”

“It could be a scouting party with ten thousand men on their heels,” Jon pointed out.

“In that case, we’re under siege until Wun Wun takes two steps and crushes them all. The only thing we’d have to worry about is Tormund trying to take on the entire army by himself.” Your cloak fluttered at your feet as you raced up the stone stairs. “And besides, if there are ten thousand men riding for Winterfell that  _you_  don’t already know about, you’re being a shitty king.”

“Always wonderful to have your total confidence in me and my capacity to rule.”

You laughed breathlessly. The moon was low in the sky, casting much light upon the realm, now that the clouds had finally parted. At the battlements, Tormund already had an arrow nocked. When he caught sight of you, he shouted at Jon.

“You can’t manage to get your little sister to stay away from danger?”

Jon scoffed. “And you can’t manage to get your little wife to stay away from danger?”

“Neither of you can get me to stay away from danger!” You rushed excitedly to take another look out at the approaching party. “They’ve only a few horses, and they look tired and sick. The others are on foot. That one is. . .he’s as big as Smalljon. . .” You swallowed and backed away from the window. You ran into Jon, who rubbed a soothing hand down your arm.

“It’s not Smalljon.”

“I  _know_  he’s dead, Jon—”

“I mean that can’t possibly be Smalljon. That’s Sandor Clegane.”


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

“Do you stare at the fire to look for answers?”

You sat in your father’s favourite chair in the library, a book spread over your belly. You didn’t need to look to know who it was, but you did groan. “How do you keep finding me?”

Thoros laughed and sat in the chair opposite you, using his teeth to uncork his rum. He smiled, though, and caught himself before offering you a drink. “I never try. You just seem to be everywhere I mean to go. Will you answer my question?”

“I don’t believe in gods,” you said impatiently. “Not the old ones, not the new, and certainly not one who would try to talk to me through a brazier. The only thing you see when you stare into a fire are drunken fancies and the damage you’re doing to your eyes by  _staring into the light_.”

The priest laughed heartily and leaned back in the plush, leather seat. “Have you seen the sex of your child in one of your dreams yet?”

Your eyes narrowed. Heart racing, you picked up your book and threw it at him, then stood, advancing. “You  _listen_ —”

“Lady Y/N, peace!” Thoros cackled. “Peace, peace, I’ve not come here to annoy you. I came in here because I figured it’d be deserted. Can’t ask a pregnant woman to leave her comfort, especially not when it’s her own home,  _especially_  not when it’s the  _lady_  of her own home, eh? Why not sit and speak to someone who knows about what’s going on in that head of yours? It’s been troubling you. You think you’re going mad.”

“What would you know about it, you sad old drunk?” You tucked your hand against your growing belly bump and turned back to the fire. “You don’t have any clue what you’re talking about. There’s nothing unusual going on in my mind. My thoughts are on my family, my people, and their collective fates. My thoughts are on my child, and making sure there’s a future for my child to live in.”

“You haven’t told anyone, have you?” Thoros tipped his head back to drink.

“Stop it,” you whispered. “I’ve allowed you and your friends through the gates of Winterfell because of my love for Sansa. Jon has barely any interest in any of you being here, either. You’re no help to us, any of you, except for the Hound, maybe.”

Thoros caught himself again trying to offer the bottle to you. “Aye, you’ve been such a gracious hostess. Toss another book at me. I’m only pulling your leg, don’t actually do it.”

You regarded him hard and then your eyes turned weary. As soon as he’d ridden through the gates, Thoros of Myr had been grinning at you and asking you strange things when he caught you alone. Twice before he’d mentioned the visions of your dreams. “Then what do you know about it? You sad, old drunk.”

“Nothing to fear.” Thoros shrugged and motioned for you to sit down again. “Go on, off your feet or your ankles will begin to swell. I’ve been seeing that child in your belly for years. He’ll be tall, broad-shouldered, fit to fight and fuck his way up and down the eastern coast.”

“Why would you see my child? I’m not yet even twenty years.”

He shook his head and shrugged again. “All I know is what the Lord of Light shows me. I’m not a good priest, never have been, at least not since coming to Westeros. I’ve seen a lot of things. I saw Jon Snow, and Sansa, and I saw you, as you are now, but long ago. I saw Ramsay Snow. I saw him with a bow, and with dogs.”

“Are you suggesting that I see things because of the Lord of Light? He’s been infiltrating my dreams and showing me, what? I’m not convinced I’m not just dreaming my own memories and my mind is filling in the gaps. How do you know you’ve seen my son?”

“Because I met your husband, and there’s no denying who that boy belongs to.” Thoros smiled genuinely and tilted his head fondly at you. “I always knew the boy was a Stark, more a Stark than Ned Stark’s bastard, and I always took it for Tully hair. But having met Tormund. . .”

You looked down to your shoes, drawing out your handkerchief. Sansa had stitched a wolf and tiger onto one for you. “I’m very sorry, Thoros of Myr. S-sorry. It’s not very becoming of a lady to be so damn rude to a guest.”

“Come to think of it, that may not be him in you now,” Thoros looked inquisitively at the roaring flames. “But the man I’ve seen  _is_  yours. He wears a great steel helm, got those grey-green Stark eyes, and a massive black war axe.”

“And he lives?” All pretence dropped, you stared at him openly and reverently.

He nodded, tried to pass the bottle to you again, then cursed. “Aye, he lives. Maybe the Lord of Light will show me more.”

“But if he lives, that must mean. . .”

“Perhaps. Perhaps the war never ends. Perhaps we all die and the boy lives, lives on to become the Prince that was Promised, I don’t fucking know. The Red Lady seems to think that’s Snow.”

“She’s been banished from this place, for what she’s done.”

“What, you don’t want to hear all about Azor Ahai and how he may be your son?”

“I don’t want that for my son,” you shook your head. “I don’t want it for my brother, either. I want them to be safe. I haven’t dreamt about them. Either of them. In my dreams, I see Smalljon. My husband. Or, he was. I’ve seen a man I think must have been Tormund’s father, but only flashes of him remain in my memory. Mother and Father. My baby brother, Rickon. They’re only dreams, though.”

“You know that isn’t true.”

“But I want it to be.”

Thoros set his rum aside, crossed his legs, and sighed for you. “Very rarely are the gifts thrust upon us ones that we want. All you Starks have something in you, something different, something connected to the magic that used to be in the blood of the forest people.”

“Is it madness that made me see Smalljon while I was awake and standing?”

“No. Did he talk to you?”

“Yes. But it—”

“Did he touch you?”

“Y-yes. I mean, I thought he did. I think I must have just remembered what it felt like for him to touch me.”

From across the room, your voices carried. Tormund listened to you describe your fears of the ghost-like encounter, and how you’d seen and heard your mother and father discuss your premature engagement to Smalljon Umber. What hit him deepest, in the pit of his stomach, was a single phrase. Jon’s voice, ringing in his ears.  _“In truth, I think Father intended for her to marry Smalljon, eventually, but he had no reason to believe the Umbers would ever break faith, and you should not tell her of this.”_

He hadn’t.

He’d wanted to see you and speak to his baby, after a long day, but he left the entrance of the library and left you there talking to the priest. He didn’t know exactly where his feet were carrying him or why he was moving so quickly. He couldn’t respond to the few greetings that came his way. When he reached the guest house, he could feel the wood creak against his thundering fists.

It was Dondarrion that answered, with his eyepatch and crooked smile. “You’re looking for Clegane? He’s not come back yet, but I don’t expect you could miss him if you went out and looked.”

“Get on your horse and come with me,” Tormund said hoarsely.

Beric blinked his one eye at him, like he wasn’t sure what language he was speaking. “Come again?”

Tormund took his shoulder in a vice grip and pulled him forward. “Get on your fucking horse and come with me.” He didn’t give the man much choice, pulling him along to the stables.

“Not that I don’t enjoy the company,” Beric laughed, his hands on the reins of his destrier. “What’s gotten you worked up enough to drag me out to the woods before you’ve even had a chance to get drunk for the night? You’re angry Clegane won’t be your new best friend?”

“I was looking for my wife and I found her with your Red Wizard.”

“. . .And you killed them?”

“What? No, not like that.” Tormund scoffed loudly. “They weren’t fucking, they were talking. He’s always buzzing around her ears, but he’ll never get up her skirts.”

“Aye, ‘course not. What’s gotten you bothered, then? Thoros is a lot of things, a lot of not so savoury things, but whores are really where his interests are.” Beric began to laugh again, jovial and true. “He doesn’t even need me to tell him she’s too good and too married for him.”

“Aye, and I don’t need to beat the thought into him either. Shut up, Dondarrion, and listen. I heard them talking about something like they were old friends, but she’s never told me, and it’s that witchcraft that’s kept you alive.”

“Oh, what the fuck are you on about?”

“He spoke about seeing my son,” Tormund hollered. “He spoke about her dreams, but they’re not  _dreams_.”

“Ahh,” Beric nodded. “Aye, green dreams. Or, I assume. Thoros is fascinated by those with the greensight.”

“ _Greensight_?” Tormund pulled his horse in front of Beric’s, halting them. “You are saying that my wife is a  _warg_?”

“Maybe she is, maybe not. But if you heard them talking about dreams that aren’t really dreams, that’s greensight. Thoros thinks that all the Starks are imbued with some kind of power or another. Do you have wargs north of the Wall?”

“Aye. They are. . .feared, but valued. I knew a man, Orell, who was a warg. And a fucking Thenn. A fat crow killed the Thenn, Jon Snow killed Orell. I know what it looks like when they do it, and I’ve never seen Y/N’s eyes roll back into her head. Well, not in that way.”

“As I said, I wouldn’t really know. But if you heard them talk about dreams that were unlike dreams, it was greensight. Not to say that you want my advice, except I think you might, but if she knows as little about it as you do, which isn’t an odd thing, it probably scared her too much to say anything until Thoros started badgering her about it.”

“I don’t want your fucking advice,” Tormund snapped. His horse snorted and jerked his head. “I don’t want this magic of your bullshit god. I want to know how to help her.”

“’Course you do. I like you, Tormund, but the Lord of Light could only have bestowed the gift on her. She may not see pleasant things, now or ever, but it isn’t a curse. I have believed, since Thoros first told me of it, that the greensight is just a way for the Lord to reveal the truths a person needs to make their journey through the world. Again with my unwanted advice, but if she’s too afraid to tell you about it now, you shouldn’t let on that you know. None of us will misuse the information, and I’ve no idea how one would do that, besides, for none choose what they can see. It is only shown to them. I would imagine that she’s under enough distress as it is, considering what happened to the last pregnant woman at one of her family’s wedding.” Beric tilted his head back toward the castle and bid his horse to turn. “Just try not to kill Thoros for me. He means no harm.”

Tormund furrowed his brow and clicked his tongue to his mount, riding at Beric’s side again. “What are you talking about? What pregnant woman?”

“Oh? Then it really must be eating at her, if she won’t speak of it. They called it the Red Wedding. Robb Stark went back on his promise to wed one of Walder Frey’s dog-daughters. Married a noble girl from Volantis instead. She fell pregnant. Y/N’s uncle, Edmure Tully, agreed to pay for Robb’s mistake. This was back when Robb was King in the North, mind. Edmure agreed to marry Roslin Frey, and, at the wedding, once the bride and groom were gone to the bedding, Robb and Catelyn Stark were murdered, and his wife was stabbed many times in the womb to make  _sure_  that neither her or the babe could survive it.”

“I never heard that part.”

“Shit.”

Tormund dug in his heels and rode ahead of Beric, riding back for the castle with his mind set on one person.

* * *

 

After a half hour of searching, you decided you were too tired to go on looking for Tormund. The man always found his way to you, anyway. You yawned as you walked, thinking on your conversation with the Myrish priest, trying to dismiss those thoughts as they came, and cursed when you collided in the corridor with someone going the opposite way.

“Bloody hell, woman!” Sandor Clegane shouted. He managed to break your fall and pulled you, probably carefully, for him, back up to your feet. “Watch where the fuck you’re going.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you hissed, rubbing your sore arm.

He broke into a peal of gravelly laughter and his demeanour softened noticeably. “Well, you’ve changed as much as the rest of them, haven’t you? Has that mad Wildling shown you how to grow a pair of balls?”

“No, I figured out how to do that on my own, thanks. Make yourself useful and walk me to my rooms.” Your hand clamped onto his elbow and you started walking. Beside you, he sneered.

“The last time I was at Winterfell, you told me you wouldn’t look at my face because it was too rude. Now you look me dead in the eye and tell me to fuck myself.”

“I was sweet back then.”

“So what happened to you?”

“I’ve seen much worse things than your face. Actually,  _that_  was rude, I apologise. I could give a fuck about your face. No one should give a fuck about your face.”

“Hm.”

This was  _easy_ , far too easy. You eyed him warily. “Why do I like you so much?”

“Shut the fuck up with that shite.”

“Why does  _anyone_  like you?”

“They don’t.”

You cackled, shaking your head. “Sansa adores you. I think my husband loves you.”

“Ugh, don’t talk to me about that mad fucker.”

“He may leave me for you.” You tried to elbow him, but realised with a start that you couldn’t quite reach. “Good gods, I think I come up to your wrists.”

“You’re tiny, like an awful little mouse. All I can hear when you talk is squeaking.”

“I know this is your version of kindness.” You stepped on his foot so he’d stop walking. When you moved around to study him, he simply stared back at you, a touch of bemused disdain on his gnarled face. “Why are you being the Hound’s version of so nice to me? Except. . .”

“I didn’t fuck her,” he jeered.

Your eyes grew so large, you felt as though they might pop out of their sockets. “You did.”

“No, I bloody didn’t. I knew that was what you were going to say because you’re a fucking perverse little mouse. I never laid a finger on Sansa and I haven’t now.”

“Sansa wants to fuck someone that Sansa wants to fuck,” you said after a while, taking his elbow again and tugging. “She looked very pleased that you showed up. If it’s what she wants, then I don’t care.”

Sandor looked a little sad, then, but tried to cover it by frowning. “Those Northmen really fucked you both up, didn’t they?”

You nodded, never missing a beat. “You’ve no idea.”

Just then, you felt it, if only for a passing second. Eyes staring straight through you, down to your bones, accentuated by the soft clink of chain links rubbing together. You froze so suddenly that Clegane dragged you for a few seconds before realising you were no longer moving. Mortal fear overcame you, and the only thing you knew to do or even could do was cross both arms over the front of you to protect your baby.

Before you, Sandor Clegane felt something. . . _wrong_. He looked all around for whatever was out of place, one hand reaching for the sword at his belt, the other pushing you behind him. When finally he saw that there was nothing, nothing at all to have made a peep or caused disturbance, his eyes fell on you. “What is this?”

Over his shoulder, you saw eyes the colour and inflexibility of Valyrian steel. “Nothing.” You swallowed and willed yourself to move, one foot in front of the other, away from the man behind Sandor who reached right through him to you. 

“Y/N.” The Hound didn’t even have to walk quickly to catch up to you. In your mind, you knew that meant Smalljon was even closer.

 _He isn’t there_ , you told yourself, over and over. Once over the threshold of your rooms, you tugged on Sandor’s arm until he allowed himself to be pulled inside.

“What the  _fuck_  is wrong with you?” He pushed you down into a chair and glared down at you with a mixture of concern and deep mistrust. “Your mad fucker husband is going to think—”

“No, he won’t,” you whispered, staring at the door. You knew he grew even more tense and uncomfortable when your eyes began to water, but nothing could be done for it. “Stay where you are until he comes back, don’t ask me any more questions, and I’ll pay you.”

“I’m not your fucking sworn shield.”

“If you won’t do it for money, do it for Sansa,” you snapped, staring at the doors. Without looking, you tapped on the table to indicate the decanter of wine. “Drink up and feel free to continue to insult me and my husband.”

Sandor poured himself wine and kept right on looking at you. “Supposed to be a wolf. Not a mouse.”

“Clegane, something bothered you out there. I saw. You heard something or saw something and you reached for your sword and looked for it again. If there’s something wrong with me, there’s something wrong with you.”

“There’s any number of things wrong with me, but people look at me and imagine there’s any number of things wrong with me.” He drank, long and deep. “People look at you and see a pretty pregnant girl with a title. I’m used to knowing people think there’s something wrong with me, they always have. What do you suppose could be wrong with a pretty pregnant girl with a title—a so-called  _queen_?”

You rolled your head his way and a wave of indelible sorrow caught you like the cold. When you’d seen him last, well, the only time you ever had seen him, he was relatively well put together—combed hair, nice clothes, a broach on his cloak. It had made you sad then, too, to think about the real monster, whoever it was that had done it to Clegane. Now, you still didn’t know who had maimed him and made such a sickening and permanent impact on the entirety of his life, but it moved you deeper. The years between your meetings clearly had not been kind to him, either. “People look at you and think that you should be feared, so you’ve built up a very convincing way of seeming like someone dark and twisted. It’s darkened and twisted you, in turn, but you still saved Sansa from being raped by a crowd of angry men, you offered to rescue her from King’s Landing, you kept Arya from getting herself killed for a long while, and, in the hall, when you sensed something was very. . .out of place, you attempted to put yourself between me and whatever it was. I’m not here to convince you that you’re just a misunderstood darling who can be loved back to normal, because you can’t be. I haven’t even got a face like yours and Tormund can’t love me in such a way that what I’ve known and felt and seen and that which follows me to this day will erase or simply go away.” You felt his impatience rising to a fever pitch, so quickly carried on. “He can’t fix me with love, but being with him makes me feel good, and feeling good because someone loves you isn’t a crime. He is one of the few to help me believe that there are good men left in this world, and that the end of the world is not so wonderful a thought after all. When I look at you now, I don’t feel afraid, because you would at least  _try_  to keep me alive in the case of misfortune, and that makes me thankful to you. The pit of what I’m trying to say is that you are the  _only_  person, no joking, no exaggeration, the  _only_  person who makes Sansa feel safe. I’m not trying to play matchmaker or mess in your affairs because all I want is for her to be happy, and if happiness means you, welcome to the fucking fold. Just don’t do the typical broken hero thing and try to convince her that you’re too sinister or too irreparably damaged to be any good for her, because you already are.”

Tormund poked his head through the door then, looking around the room with surprise. “I thought I heard you talking to someone.”

“Hire that woman a guard,” Clegane said, looking at neither of you as he stormed through the room. “Mad as a hare.”

“Oh,” Tormund approached you with a grin. “He likes you.”

You laughed at his absurd logic. “I’m quite surprised you didn’t pull a knife on him.”

“I only threaten people I believe might try to steal you away. He wouldn’t try to do that. He might be into men, anyway.” Tormund shrugged and started shucking layers of furs at the foot of the bed.

Your smile was warm and muted. He jabbered on while you watched and listened, telling of homosexual women and men he’d known before, and explaining it to you, step by step, as though you’d never met either and had no clue how it indeed worked. He distracted himself, though, and began to talk of Sandor again, about how he was dying to know what had caused the burns that made the Hound who he was. While he spoke, you began to unravel your own layers of comfortable clothes. When he saw you coming toward him naked, he finally quit talking. Still, you smiled at him. “You are such a wonderful person. You care so much about people. I wish I knew how you did it.”

Tormund looked down at the freckles on his arms, the scars, the long, curling auburn hairs. He opened and closed his fists several times, and you realised it was his way of working through a thought he couldn’t wrap around his mind. He was rigid, but yielded minutely as you moved closer to him and pressed a kiss into the centre of his chest. He crossed his uncertain arms behind your back, and you just breathed in his smell of ground and the pines.

“You do me a great honour by saying this,” he said at last. “I’ve tried hard to stop you thinking I’m just the savage that bit through Umber’s throat because he could, even if that is what I am. I know that about myself. I’m proud of it. It also makes me proud that you can look at me and see something in addition to that. It takes more than a killer to lead and something far better to be a father. You were unsure, but put enough faith in me that you wanted to have my little babies, too. I didn’t expect this kind of belief to ever come, that night in the godswood. It makes me happy.”

The air in the room grew thick and heavy; you and your husband moved with the speed of molasses to your shared bed. You stretched out alongside him with a dreamy grin and the two of you spoke in hushed whispers, touching one another, quiet laughter rising and falling. You felt yourself rising and falling and  _safe_. Tormund pushed you thick hair away from your neck and kissed down to your shoulders. Your swollen lips remained parted all the time, soft gasps falling, your pitch and a sense of  _urgency_  rising. You closed your eyes, arching your back like a taut bow; Tormund ran his tongue down a notch in your spine and reached to cup your breast in his hand.

“Don’t stop,” you begged in a soft whisper. Every touch was hot as Wildfire and delicious. You could truly taste it on your tongue, sweet as pleasure and salt as love. You began to hear it, too, as the thrumming, rhythmic beat of your heart in your ears. You extended your hand down your chest, over the ridge of your belly, down between your legs where your own softness and heated arousal made you call out sharply.

Your husband, being the man he was, loving the things he loved about the sexual being you’d discovered in yourself, eased you down onto your back. He was on his knees looking over you, then, an itch beneath his skin to see all of you and most  _definitely_  see you touch yourself. It was difficult to look at all the things he wanted to see at once.

Tormund pulled one of your ankles up to his shoulder. Tormund watched himself glide in to this place of heat, friction, and the pounding rhythm of your beating heart. Tormund looked up from that place to see  _you_ , to look at  _your_  eyes, to watch with awe the haze there, the blush conquering your face and neck. Tormund, Tormund, Tormund. . .

You only realised you were saying his name, repeating it, like a prayer, when he asked why, and you had no answer. You had to fight just to keep your eyes open for him to see, so you looked up at him, at this dangerous man that loved you, and shook your head. Another wave of deep-cutting pleasure crested within you, and you heard him breathe out, almost a chuckle.

“Gods, you’re so beautiful.” He looked kindly at you, as if he were so damn happy just to be there with you. With the slightest dig of your nails into his skin, he shifted your hips and legs to angle himself impossibly deep, so every one of your breaths came as a rasp or a gasp.

You were watching him, and he was watching you, and that was all, all there was.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important shit is about to happen. Your nameday draws nearer, and Tormund experiences something quite powerful and transformative. Also, Thoros is to you as Tormund is to the Hound.

 

 

In the days before your nameday celebrations, you stayed in Winterfell and took care of the large-scale organisation. You even reminded yourself of Mother, how she would walk about and see that the silver was gleaming and that the floors were scrubbed clean. There were logistical concerns, such as how many barrels of ale and casks of wine to bring from storage, planning the meals, making sure the guest chambers were dusted, had fresh bedding. . .This was all compounded miserably by being drilled, constantly, on High Valyrian.

"You're not even trying!" Thoros complained.

"Please, not now." You paid little attention where you were walking, your neck craned over your tabulations and figures. "I don't have the time for this, and I hardly think High Valyrian will ever be of use to me."

Gently, he steered you out of the way of two servants carrying wall coverings. "Of course it's of use to you. We can make fun of people right in front of their faces and they would never know. Now, try again: Nyke riñnykeā hen ropatasōnar."

You scoffed at him and shot him a nasty look. "I'm not going to worship the Red God. I have a thousand better things to do right now, and I feel as though I'm going to throw up."

"Then it's time to get off your feet and let someone else take over," he said, now steering you out of the Great Hall.

"What, I'm to leave it in your capable hands? Two barrels of rum to the guest hall. That's all you'd achieve."

"I saw Sansa. She can handle it for you, right? Is your sister capable?"

You gagged, but managed to keep it down. "Gods, this is the bloody worst. Give this to her, please."

Thoros replied in Valyrian, but you were just too tired and too uncomfortable to keep up the battle. Once you made it to your bed, you pulled a cool, damp cloth over your face and moaned for thirty minutes before you heard the door open and close.

"I'm not sleeping," you told him. "I've got to get up and finish--"

"Sssh. Shut up." Tormund sat down at the foot of the bed and took your ankle between his hands. "If you don't want everyone to know until the right day, you'd best start staying in. It'll be easy to guess what's wrong with you if you're always running off to puke or crying when some little thing can't be done just so."

"I haven't been to Winter Town in  _days_. . ."

"All of them know of the baby now. I've told them you won't be up for celebrating until a few days after whatever the hells is happening here, anyway."

"And?"

"And? They listened to me. They don't have to like everything."

You groaned heavily.

Tormund gave your ankle a squeeze. "They'd rather you celebrate with them first. That isn't how it works out." He shrugged demonstratively. "Not everything works out the way everyone would like and the Free Folk, if anyone, are plenty aware of that."

"But that's not all there is to disappoint them. They know that the Umbers will arrive any moment, and you haven't done a damn thing to keep them calm about it."

"I have!" he protested. "I've told them to wait for a signal before making any attack."

"Tormund!"

He laughed coarsely and lay so that his chest pressed into your back and he could hold your minuscule baby bump. His lips were right near your ear. "You're theirs, now, and they won't ever let you go. You're their pregnant queen. They've even discovered, somehow, that Umber was a shit head to you, and believe me, if they hated them before, they want to tear them all to pieces, now."

"Then I have to speak to them myself." You attempted to pull away from him and stand.

He was having none of that. "They will not attack unless Winterfell is attacked. If it is, Wun Wun will crash that gate down again, and the Umbers die. All of them."

" _Not_  all," you twisted enough to look in his eyes. "Not Ned. Swear to me."

Long seconds passed before he gave the tiniest of nods, and the redness of his ears was a dead giveaway as to how he felt about that.

"I find it so odd that you're jealous of a little boy, but not that damn priest who's been following me around for two weeks," you jested. When he did nothing more than grunt harshly behind you, it was time to give up on that and close your eyes. "You can't stay mad at me."

"I'm not."

"Well, that's fortunate, because you can't." With your stomach settled for now, you were better able to relax. "I really think it's a boy."

"I like the name you picked for him. Torrence." His hand seemed to grow warmer through the fabric of your dress. "Torrence Stark. It sounds terribly strong, like he'll be ripping apart a man's skull by the time he can walk. Gods, I want the time to pass. Do you hear me, boy? I am ready to  _play_."

You cracked into soft laughter. "How can you talk about playing and ripping skulls apart in the same breath?"

"They're not entirely different things." Tormund drummed his fingers on your belly.

"What are you so nervous about? What is it?" You turned onto your back and tried to card your fingers through his hair. Unruly as ever, this proved problematic.

"I don't want you to go back to the Last Hearth."

"It's more than just the idea of me traveling somewhere without you, isn't it? It's more than worrying about me being safe. It's both of those things, but there's something more to it."

"I saw him." Tormund kept his eyes on your abdomen, but you could see the despair. "Smalljon Umber could've killed me. He had the upper hand for a while there and he broke my nose and bashed my face in. I'm quite a big man, always have been, but Umber was big as the Hound. Upper hand or not, I was always going to win that fight, and I did, without thinking about it, without any sort of mercy or decency, I guess you'd put it that way. Again, I'm not a small person, and he could have done even more damage if he hadn't gotten distracted. It would've been easy. He wasn't just large, he was unnaturally strong, brash, well-armed, and he had fire in him that wasn't easy to put out."

"Are you just going to find new ways to describe how big the Smalljon was? Massive, yes. Powerful, yes. Armed to the teeth, yes. He never went anywhere at all without at least one hunting knife." You shrugged. "I don't know why he was like that. He wasn't called Smalljon for his size."

"When he bashed my face in, it  _hurt_. But that's just me. I'm big, I'm strong, I'm excellent at killing people, big or small. You. . .Look at this little body." Tormund touched your cheekbones, your narrow shoulders, ran the back of his hand down one of your arms and then down your ribs. Then, he held your hand. "I think of how it was to fight that man on a battlefield and I see him hurting you. It wasn't hard for him to bust me face open. What'd he do to you?"

You took a deep breath and smiled sadly at him. "What's the use in thinking about it?"

"That's a stupid fucking question. You are my wife."

"That doesn't make thinking about it very useful or worth the time. No more than it does you any good to think of any random person you've ever killed, or imagining some other person being cruel to me. These are hurtful thoughts. He's long-dead now. What he's done can never be undone, and I don't quite like to think about what he's done. It was unfair and it was. . ." You struggled to find words, playing with his beard while you thought. Eventually, you sighed. "It is over now, and he can never hurt me again. I have made a good life for myself. I've successfully managed to charm the Free Folk into not openly despising me, in spite of my upbringing, I've helped Ser Davos in his role as Master of Law to compose an official writ of law for the Northern kingdom, I've taken the title of Winterfell, I've married for love and not for conquest, I've learned to be hopeful in the face of the Long Night and to be kind even though I did face such cruelty all that time.

"When I sat in the Keep waiting for Smalljon to ride back to Last Hearth wearing my brother's head around his neck, I felt as though the rest of my life would just be crushed underneath him. That, even though I'd lost the two people I married the man in order to protect, I was still trapped within those walls, and I would never be free. I almost gave up. As I sat there, waiting by the window, I thought I may as well do my best to please him and have a relatively pain-free remainder of my life. Sitting there, I knew there was nothing I could ever do about it. But then you killed him. Then I came here, felt like there was use for me again when I helped to patch up the soldiers and poor Wun Wun. I felt like my thoughts and my mind were valuable again, because Jon asked for my counsel. And then. . .after a week of being utterly powerless to get you out of my mind, I waited outside the small council chambers until you came out and found out that what Smalljon had been doing to me was far, far from  _all_  there was, and that even a stranger could be kind, and that someone could still  _want_  me, after all he'd done, that someone could look at me and see something more than the poor Widow Umber whose husband--ahem. I found that being in bed with a man didn't have to hurt, that it could be  _incredible_  and empowering and rough and tame and lovely and filthy and everything in between. I had my life back by then, but you became an enormous part of it all. Permanent."

"You have no idea how permanent," he said after a while. He patted you on the thigh and sat up. "Come on, I'll help you get dressed again."

"Oh? For what? It can't be time to eat yet, and I'd rather just have dinner in here."

"Jon's received the Umbers."

You hit him over the head with a pillow. "And you've made me keep them waiting? Ugh, you are simply the worst sort of person!"

As quickly as you could, you dressed in a simple fashion, combed and braided your hair, made sure to pull your necklace into view, and asked Tormund to join you. He looked a bit surprised, if exanimate, and promised not to growl at anyone, per your request.

In the receiving hall, the greetings had already passed. Rose was sniffing around Ned, wanting to be petted, but the little boy seemed unsure.

"Well go on, love," you called, smiling brightly for him when he turned to see you.

His mouth hung open for a moment, and he seemed even more uncertain of how to comport himself, what he was supposed to do. It wasn't long before that his name was hardly mentioned and he had almost free range, so long as he did nothing to anger or shame his father. Now the man was dead, the boy thrust into a position of power, and no longer allowed to be a boy.

"Lady Mother," Ned spoke at last, bowing his little brown head to you. "It is splendid to see you in such good health. I hope that winter is treating you well."

Tormund could hardly breathe. He watched as you and the boy traded frigid pleasantries to satisfy on-lookers, but could see so clearly the love in your eyes and the sadness, the cloying ambiguity, the desperation for comfort in the boy's. He felt all at once a year's worth of shame for the grudges he'd held against this small child as they disipated like smoke blown away. He watched Ned as he stuck close to your side, fidgeting, but unable to seek what he needed from you in his new and unwanted position.

After several moments of changing and making up his mind in a circular pattern of thought, Tormund approached where you stood, but crouched down beside Ned Umber. "You don't give a shit what these people are saying either, do you?"

Little Ned glanced at you before looking back at Tormund, hardly able to look him in the eye. "It is important discussion, but it is sometimes difficult for me to focus on important matters. I am learning to be a better listener and a better leader to my house."

"Boy, don't waste that talk on me. Do you know who I am?" Tormund asked.

"Ahh, you are Tormund the Giantsbane, the Tall-Talker, the Ice-Breaker, the Thunderfist--"

The man laughed heartily. "Who taught you everything anyone has ever called me?"

Ned glanced at you again. This time, you glanced back and gave him a reassuring smile before returning to your conversation. "M-my Lady Mother, Ser. Er, Lord. Er. . ."

Tormund laughed again, stood, and waved his hand for Ned to follow him outside. "You should get away from these people before you explode. Come on."

Two of the Umber vassals moved to follow, but you broke away from your conversation a second time, long enough to tell them to stay as they were.

Tormund took him outside of the hall and out of the immediate gaze of anyone who expected a damn thing from him. The boy still looked fit to piss himself, but followed along with his little cloak fluttering. Tormund looked back at him several times. "With as big as your father was, I expected you to be a bit taller."

"So did Father," Ned agreed readily, careful to avoid puddles of mud in the yard. 

Tormund looked back again and tilted his head. "Where do you want to go, boy?"

"Can we go to the glass gardens?" Ned asked, fear fringing his little voice. "I like it there."

"Lead the way, little Lord Umber."

"You don't want to kill me, do you? My Lady Mother says. . ."

"Just call her your mother and be done with it. I told you, talk as you normally would with me. I'm no one you have to appease or impress." Tormund opened the glass doors into the humid out-building and let the child walk through before he followed suit and made sure that the doors were securely shut, to keep the heat and the humidity inside.

Ned walked to the centre of the place, looking around at the fruits and vegetables as if it were all magic.

"Your mother explained all this to me once, but I admit I wasn't paying much attention. I don't come here and I'm not responsible for it, I don't need to know how it works." Tormund shrugged and crouched down on the ground again. "Let's try again. Do you know who I am?"

Fingers knitting together, Ned nodded, his brown eyes wide. "You defeated my father in the field of battle."

Tormund nodded. "Aye, I did. Do you understand that I bear you no ill will?"

"Nor I you," Ned told him, a slant to his lips. "Father told me that when a man is killed on the field of battle, unless there was treachery, there is no dishonour. My Lady Mother says that you didn't know Father and couldn't have planned the killing. And also, my father betrayed House Stark and broke faith. The punishment for treason is death."

The man sighed and grabbed a nearby carrot from the dirt. He wiped it vigorously against his sleeve, then crunched into it. "Instead of telling me what others have told you to think, tell me what you really think."

"May I take an apple?" Ned was looking on one of the pinkish ripe ones on a low-hanging branch with nothing short of splendor.

Tormund shrugged at him and took another bite of carrot. "I don't give a shit what you do, boy. You need a chance to run around wild. If that means eating an apple, eat the fucking apple."

"The apples grown here are always perfectly sweet and tart!"

Tormund's chewing slowed as he watched a few moments of true happiness lift the boy's features and bring a joyous mischief to his eyes. He found it hard to swallow, and coughed. His throat worked on its own as he continued to watch the child, truly a child, now, and felt a rush of sorrow and rapture that it made his arms forget that this was not his son to reach for, though his arms and heart ached. The boy would've been Torwyn's age, and although they didn't look the same, something in seeing him, watching him, brought to memory his own little boy, lost long ago. He remembered offering to you to raise this boy, and wished intensely that he'd managed to convince you it was best. Little boys didn't belong in castles, pretending to be men. Little boys belong with other children, knocking the shit out of each other and  _taught_  to be men along the way.

"Do you ever miss your real mother?" Tormund stood to grab an apple of his own and sat down beside him.

Ned shook his head. "I did not know her. She died giving birth to me. That's why Father married my Lady Mother. To have stronger heirs and to give me a new mother. She lived with us a long time, and I used to play with Rickon, but. . .Father gave him to the Boltons."

"You are just a boy, those are not your sins to atone for," Tormund told him. "I'm sure that if it were your choice, you would still have your friend?"

Ned nodded eagerly. "My best friend. Mother says he was confused and heartbroken, and that's why he called her Mother, too, but I think it was my fault, for calling her Mother. He heard me and thought it was right."

"No," Tormund pursed his lips and shook his head. "Your mother told me about Rickon. I think you're right when you say that he was confused and hurt, but that isn't your sin to bear, either."

Ned bit into his apple thoughtfully, and his face transformed with curiosity. "Why are you so nice to me? Everyone around me tells me that you're a savage and you've poisoned Mother's mind against her own people, but you're just like a regular person."

Tormund struggled momentarily to find the right words. He patted the boy on the back. "Because people who are mean to children are cunts, Ned."

"I was named for my Lady Mother--for Mother's father, did you know?"

Tormund nodded once and tried to appear as rapt as Ned was enthralled.

"But, when we are alone, she doesn't call me Lord Umber or Ned."

"What does she call you?"

"Her little potato."

Tormund had to brace himself against the ground, bent over his own belly, shaking with laughter. He heard Ned giggling as well, and Tormund had to wipe tears out of his eyes when he looked up again. "I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't that."

"Because my hair is brown and my eyes are brown and if I spend too much time outside, my skin turns brown-ish. She's clever, and very sweet." Ned sat a little closer to his new friend and drew his hands up around his knees. "I know she has to stay in Winterfell just like I have to stay at the Last Hearth, but I wish it weren't so. She still takes care of me, and nobody else does. Everyone just gets angry because I'm no good at being a Lord like my Grandfather or Father."

The man had to will himself not to cry, although it was one of the saddest things he'd heard in a long while, spoken with so much raw emotion and broken spirit. Reaching over with a steady hand, he shook the boy's shoulder jovially. "Good boys love their mothers. Your mother loves  _you_."

"She told me that the Wildlings aren't bad people. She loves you, and you are a Wildling, and she would never love a bad man or let a bad man take me away, and you are  _king_  of the Wildlings, and if all of that is true, then she's right and Wildlings aren't bad people. I'm afraid to say that to my maester and advisors."

"Fuck 'em," Tormund said, plucking another apple for Ned.

The boy stared at his spot-free apple for a moment, then cast a gleeful look at Tormund before taking a big bite. "Fuck 'em."

* * *

 

You looked around the hall every few seconds and tried not to seem frantic, but really, where in seven hells was your husband with Ned? The trestle tables were lined now with men and women growing drunker by the moment, but you had been unable to touch your food, not knowing where they were. Few of the Free Folk were present, but most simply had no desire to eat alongside a bunch of Southern cunts.

All of a sudden, you felt someone slide onto the bench beside you.

"Mother!" Ned touched your arm openly. Smiling at you, Tormund took a seat beside the boy. "Mother, Tormund says that we can go for a ride in the moonlight later!"

You couldn't help your grin or soft laughter. You kept your voice low. "Anything for my sweet little potato. Did you make a new friend?"

"A new  _best_  friend." Ned spent more time talking than he did cutting his meat or actually eating it, and the entire time, all you could do was smile over at your husband while the man pretended nothing was different or out of place. "--and I asked him to show me so he plucked a pumpkin straight from the vine, swung his hammer, and smashed it into a thousand pieces!"

"Ssh, ssh," you reminded him gently. "We'll talk more about the two of you destroying fruits and vegetables when we go riding. You and I will need to change clothes. I'll instruct your attendants and Tormund will assist me."

"Yes, Mother." He tucked in to his food then, picking away the tomatoes with his fingers. Once he had scarfed everything down and finished his little half-cup of allowed wine, Ned dashed away from the table, and you scooted closer to your husband.

"I don't know whether to be pissed or pleased."

"Can't talk here." Tormund gestured with his fork at all the ears capable of listening in. "But I need to speak with you."

For the duration of the meal, you jostled your ankle. You were never one to enjoy the feeling of anticipation, and while you had hoped that Tormund would at least tolerate Ned's presence, some sort of magic had happened once they'd left the hall earlier. Ned was acting much more like his old self, before he was burdened prematurely. Unable to wait much longer, you leaned to the other side, to your brother's ear, and whispered that you must excuse yourself for the evening. Jon nodded, mouth full of potatoes, and Tormund followed you without prompting.

The doors shut behind you, you closed in on him, putting your hands on his arms, beaming. "You lovely, wretched, wonderful, awful, delightful, lovely man!"

Tormund squeezed you hard and tight, as he did in more sombre moments, and rested his head over yours. "Y/N, he can't go away from you again."

Smiling sadly now, you forced yourself further away to look at him. "It certainly isn't the way we'd like it, is it?"

"It's not the way that it will be," Tormund contended heatedly.

Your eyebrows popped up toward your hairline. "Dear me, you're full of surprises today, aren't you? Listen, Ginger Giant, I am immensely joyful that you have apparently gotten on well enough with Ned that he's actually acting like a child, but. . .His place is at Last Hearth, and my place is here."

"The world has forced such cruel misfortunes on you and your entire family, why does it have to be that way for him? Why is it necessary to lose both his parents, have you ripped away, Y/N, have a dozen of your bloody brother's bannermen call for his head, and still he's trapped in that heap of stones having his head filled with lies?"

"Do not lay that at my doorstep," you cautioned him. "Really, you are admirable, you are  _most_  honourable, as you've proved time and time again, but you have known Ned for all of four hours and you've tried many a time to tell me that he's not my responsibility--"

"You think I don't remember? You think I can't admit my own mistakes? I can, I'm a man," Tormund shouted, stepping away from you and pacing before the fire. "I asked you to bring the boy here, and we would raise him."

"Do not yell at me."

"I'm sorry," he snapped. "I didn't mean to, I've just--I  _know_  that I was wrong, and I'm ashamed of that, but I want him here more than anything. I want him as much as I want my own baby that's growing in your belly. All of this is wrong, this is not the way to raise a boy into a man, this is the way monsters like Ramsay Bolton and Smalljon Umber are made!"

"Tormund!" Your face softened. "Tormund, I'm moved, truly, I just don't quite understand where you're coming from with all of this. I-I believe you, that you want the best for Ned and you want him to be with me because that's the best thing for Ned, but can you just explain to me what in seven hells has happened since I last saw you?"

"When I looked at the boy, I saw. . ."

When he supplied nothing further, you gave your best guess. "You saw Torwyn?"

"No!" He made a pained face and began to rub hard at his eyes. "I saw the boy and I saw this little thing that should have been running around like a chicken with no head. I saw fear in him and it hurt me. I saw him wanting to be held by you, and I wanted to fix it. It's a terrible thing, to see a child treated the way he is. That's not what they're  _for_. He called you mother and I. . .Fuck me." He leaned his forehead into the direwolf tapestry hanging across from your bed and held his eyes tightly shut. "Y/N, pour me a drink."

"But if I smell that gross shit, I'll--"

"Just wine. Wine's fine." Tormund's face lightened when he took the glass and drained it. With his free hand, he touched your face, then moved away, pacing again, looking aimless and riled again. "Gods, that's disgusting. Ned is--I saw in that boy, in twenty minutes, everything good that this entire kingdom has to offer. This shit-reeking, backward, horrible place where a boy can't even hug his mother. What the fuck is wrong with all of you? Why was he afraid to touch you? All he wanted was his mother."

You began to sob and he looked at you again. Seeing you cry at all was a rare sight, always had been, but seeing you so despaired was difficult. You felt his hand on your face again, and you were shaking. "I know that it's wrong. I've been trying. I communicate with him often, but I fear that--really, I  _know_  that it's all intercepted. Remember, I told you, a long time ago, I've run out of ways to try to do the right thing. I see Smalljon all the time, even in life when I know that I'm awake, I  _see_  him--but I've never looked at Ned and seen a trace of that man, I swear. He wasn't  _cruel_  to Ned, not outright, but he believed him to be sickly and weak and unfit to be his heir. Everything is connected, it's all drawn together, but I can't pick it apart. I'm divided at every turn between Winterfell, the Free Folk, and the Umbers, and I don't know how to do it anymore."

"I'm sorry," he said again, pulling you against his chest. "If I have to go to war with the Umbers using broken glass and chains, I will."

You shook your head gravely, then paused. You watched the flames in the fireplace dance and shiver, wishing that idiot Thoros had at least told you what to look for to see a sign or an answer. Your eyes fell to the floor between your feet, and you reached for your handkerchief. "I might know. I might know what to do. You have to promise me you'll speak of this to no one--not even Ned. Not even Jon. Not even the Hound. You cannot be seen as any part of what I will do to try and fix this, please tell me you understand."

He nodded. "Do what you have to. If you go to Last Hearth, I go as well. It's right near the Gift. It works."

"No, that doesn't work. Forget this, Tormund, let me try. It will take some time, I have to speak to. . ." You let yourself trail off and began to undress. "I need some warmer riding clothes. I need to wash my face."

"You'll tell me when you can?"

"Yes, of course. I don't mean to hide things from you, not at all, I just need some time, and you just keep your distance from Jon all you can. For me and Ned, please." You rushed back and kissed him. "I love you. Understand?"

"I love you, too."

"I love you and I find new reasons to love you everyday. I love our child, and I love Ned, and if you want to. . ."

" _Aye_."

You kissed him again, hard, hand to his cheek, trying not to weep again. "Then you are the very best of men, and I'm grateful he has you."

"I  _did_  think of Torwyn," he admitted softly. "Not when I first saw him, but in that damn glass cage where you grow shit. I thought they would be the same age. I thought he was good like him. But that isn't why."

"It's all right to think of Torwyn," you whispered. Shaking resolution into your shoulders, you went to the basin to rinse your reddened face. "I'm going to dress and go and fetch Ned. Will you ask someone in the kitchens for an apple tart? Those are his favourite."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a few new players in the game. Someone you truly hate reunites you with someone you truly love. Lots of arguing with Jon.

The wind picked up and swirled loose, powdery snow in the early winter morning. The sun rose at your back. Few castle servants were bustling at this hour, but you could hear your brother, loud, gasping breaths, the scrape of his boots over the ground, the hollow sound of his sword cutting through air. You took a moment to lean against a wooden pillar and admire Jon. Used to be, he would come out to practice his footwork and sword skills every single day just to impress and please Father. Now, he was preparing.

"Don't you think you deserve a moment's rest, Jon?" you asked, gaining his attention.

His sword arm lowered and he panted through a smile. "What are you doing up?"

"We should speak. Somewhere quiet, somewhere where no other ears are listening."

Jon's head dipped thoughtfully, then he nodded. "Should be interesting, then. Where shall we go?"

Ghost and Rose appeared then, turning the corner side-by-side. You looked down at them with a soft smile, then held your hand out to your brother. "Let's walk."

"Hey, you two." Jon briefly ruffled Ghost's pure white fur before he held his arm out for you to take and began to guide you towards the godswood. He waited a while to talk again, until you were far enough into the dense trees that there was little worry of being overheard. "I hope this is not as unpleasant as I think it will be."

"It's not," you assured him. "I feel like I've not spent enough time talking to you, as of late. It's an arduous role you've taken on, and I should be more willing to lend my support."

He shook his head. "Yours is difficult, too, and you're growing a tiny person, so I'd say your attentions are divided fairly."

"I haven't done a good job of keeping you informed--"

"Because you don't have to report your life to me. It's  _your_  life, Y/N, and I intend to keep my promise. What's on your mind?"

"Tomorrow is the day," you said softly, stopping before the heart tree. "It will change things. We need to think quickly of what we may do to appease the Umbers."

"I didn't think you cared about that," Jon remarked.

"I do and don't. I care in the capacity that it may cause trouble for you, me, Ned, Tormund, the Free Folk in the Gift, the loyalists, so on."

"It WILL cause problems," Jon admitted. "But what you've done has gained us a very powerful ally. The Free Folk have grown stronger. They're living, learning to fight against large armies rather than rangers or a fortress, cultivating hardy crops in the Gift. They're  _participating_. What you've done went a long way into helping all that to happen. They are the proudest people to ever live."

"And what they're doing makes them more proud. They're learning how to forge steel, how to work fertile fields on the large scale, military discipline, and they see how all of this makes them stronger and more capable. They always were, but if you compare them to where they were just last year, they're nigh unstoppable, now. They're not afraid to participate and contribute because they know that it benefits them, they believe in keeping their own word, and they know that if the alliance were to collapse, they have a very good chance of defending the Gift and taking Castle Black." You smirked and suddenly missed being among your people terribly.

"Remember when I said that I hoped this conversation would not be as unpleasant as I expected? That is quite an unpleasant thought."

You shrugged and lifted one of your eyebrows. "It is the truth. It's amazing, how quickly they've adapted. The systems they've developed. The rotations to and out of Winter Town."

"The seasoned and most well-trained come to Winter Town for training, then take it back to the Gift, aye?"

"Yes, and for every fifty that leave, fifty more arrive, are outfitted and provisioned, and they learn."

"Lovely."

"This is good, Jon. Sharing what we have and what we know between these kingdoms is what wins this war and ends the Long Night."

He tilted his head slowly. "What do you mean, ends it? Winter ends as it ends, we can't affect it."

"The White Walkers are the Long Night, Jon."

"You sound like you are keeping valuable information to yourself."

You smiled and turned away, looking to the exact spot where your drunken Ginger Giant had quite sloppily and belligerently confessed his true feelings to you. "Not now. We have much to talk about, indeed, but I promise you my knowledge is limited and you'll know why when it comes time to discuss it, but we should do that in the company of your small council so that they can use it as they will. I need to speak to you about Ned."

Jon sighed, fingers wiping over his face. "Not Father, I presume."

"No, not him." You felt something amiss, something buzzing in the back of your brain. Squinting, you looked into the face of the heart tree. Its eyes were. . .open.

"Y/N?"

You swallowed and willed your heart down from your throat. Laughing nervously, you touched your stomach. "Er, Jon, I'm feeling rather ill, could you escort me to the maester, please?"

He looked worried and pouty all through the godswood. He kept saying your name, asking if you could breathe properly, asking if this was all a joke.

You grabbed the front of his leathers and dragged him closer, your wide eyes peering into his. "Jon," you whispered, "someone was  _watching_  us."

Your brother turned and watched the direwolves stroll from the wood behind you. "Someone followed us?"

"Ssh!" You shook him again. "Jon, the heart tree. Someone was watching through the heart tree."

He touched your forehead now. "You really don't feel well."

You slapped his hand away angrily. "All of the things we've seen, and you're going to treat me like I'm mad? Dismiss me because I made the sin of being born a girl?"

"No!" he forcefully stated. "Of course not, Y/N! Who would watch us in the godswood, though? And how would they know where to look? How would they do it in the first place?"

You pushed away from him and slapped his hands away again when he tried reaching for you. "Go find the wizard and ask him."

"Your Grace!" Podrick came up running so fast that he slipped in the mud and fell, crashing to both of his knees. He groaned and brought himself up. "Your Grace, my Lady."

"I had no idea that you were even here," you said flatly.

"I'm back, my Lady," Podrick huffed.

"Does that mean Arya and Brienne are here?"

"No, my Lady."

"Well? Spit it out then, Pod. What are you doing here?"

"Lady Arya told me that she needed me to be here."

"He's been here for weeks, Y/N," Jon said.

"Yes, Your Grace." Podrick finally stood straight again, his breath caught.

"Do you want to be my squire?" you smirked, and had to stop yourself from leaning over and giving the poor thing a hug. He was a good lad, a good squire, and you were more than a little agitated at his apparently sudden dismissal. Who was lying?

"What's the matter, Podrick?" Jon asked finally.

The young man folded his hands in front of him. "You've a visitor."

You and your brother exchanged looks. "We have dozens of visitors at the moment, Pod. What's your point?"

"No, my Lady, a new visitor. Lord Baelish. He told me that he needed to meet with you, that it was urgent."

Jon grabbed hold of you before you could move. "Y/N, hold. Stop it."

"I told you and him both what would happen if he came back here." You struggled to get out of his grasp, but he held firm. "Podrick, go and kill him. TORMUND!"

"No, no, no!" Jon covered your mouth now. "Y/N, he's Lord Protector of the Vale. He came to our aid when no one else would--"

"Snow!" Tormund approached slowly, looking more terrifying than you'd ever seen. He had a sword already drawn in one hand, and he reached for another. His gaze was deadly, cold as the biting wind. "Boy, you may've just made the biggest mistake of your life."

"Are you out of your mind? Put the fucking sword down, Tormund, get your head on straight."

The larger man took a few more steps closer and craned his neck at Jon. "Let her go now, or I'll slit your throat and pull your tongue out through the gaping hole."

Podrick, stuck in the middle, looked baffled and horrified.

Jon let go of you then, perhaps pushing a bit too hard. "Petyr Baelish has arrived. He's asked to speak with me and Y/N, and she's just tried to have him killed. If I heard Ygritte call for me like that, it'd scare me and make me want to pull whoever'd done it's guts out, but you're going to have to put your sword away, for gods' sake, we can't do this here, not now."

Tormund took a long look over you and sheathed his sword. "Are you all right?"

You nodded firmly. "Yes, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

"You want me to kill this man, Baelish?"

"Tormund, Y/N, don't."

You sighed. "He's the one who sold Sansa to the Boltons. I told him I'd let him live because he saved us at the Battle of the Bastards, but I'd cut his throat if he ever set foot in Winterfell again."

"Oh." Tormund rested his hand on the small of your back. "We'll go talk to this Baelish. The skinny man who looks like a rat, aye? Come and we'll talk to him, and if you still want him dead, I'll kill him."

You smiled at him, then at Jon. "Okay."

"Are you even going to answer for acting like such a shit?" Jon snapped.

"I'm going to meet with Baelish. We're going to meet with Baelish. His fate is, as yet, undecided, so, for now, you've gotten what you wanted." You didn't look back at him again. "Siblings fight, remember?"

When inside, Tormund kept steering you right past the small council chambers down to the alcove you sat in the first night you'd had each other. Before you could ask why or even express surprise, he had you lifted up against the wall, his hands beneath your cloak and his mouth crushed against yours. You gasped against his lips when he somehow managed to snake his hand up your skirts. Your whole body canted toward his.

He was chuckling in your ear now, darkly, his breath making you squirm. "You  _are_  a real Northern woman, aren't you?"

"Yes," you gasped.

He laughed again, and slowly eased you back down. He fixed your dress and kissed you again. "Listen to me good, Northerner."

You nodded, hands back at him.

Tormund held them still, squeezing your wrists. "Whether or not I get to kill this man, you'd better leave that room quick or I swear I'll fuck you right there on that table." He stepped back, laughed once more, and guided you back to the small council meeting chambers.

"You  _fucker_ ," you whispered. He closed the door behind you and at least the arousal left you when you laid eyes on Petyr Baelish. You cleared your throat and didn't bother to return his smarmy little smile. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"And greetings to you too, Lady Y/N, or should I say Your Grace?"

You shook your head. "No games. Why the fuck are you here? You have a limited amount of time to explain yourself, and then I don't give a damn what Jon thinks, I will have you killed."

"I do understand that your nameday is tomorrow," Baelish said, straightening where he stood. "Might I preface our discussion with an early gift, Your Grace?"

Tormund stepped forward. "Call her that one more time, little man."

"Ah, the fire in this room." Baelish winked at you. "Lady Y/N, I've been happy to support you, your family, your home, be it with--"

"You don't need to remind me of the grain stores or your fighting men and they aren't yours to begin with, they belong to my younger cousin and you've commandeered his authority within the Vale."

"You  _do_  love your family," he went on. "I understand there'll be an addition to your family soon. I also understand that you've lost many of your loved ones. I was especially distraught when I found out about the passing of your dear mother, and I spent some time trying to secure more whispers about your uncle Edmure and his small son."

You blinked. "Mhm."

"I haven't had much success in that regard. My loyalty to the Tullys goes back decades, though, as you know, and when I found out about a particularly favourite relative of yours, I sent a dispatch of men to his aid, and once he was secure, I knew I had to accompany him to Winterfell in order to ensure the secrecy of his status and your warm reunion."

You sat up straighter in your chair, hanging on his every word now. You cleared your throat again and blinked back burning tears. "Lord Baelish."

You almost believed the fondness of his smile, his expression. "Happy nameday, Lady Y/N." Baelish gestured to the adjoining room and you shot up from your seat. Tormund shifted uneasily from foot to foot, watching you carefully. "Ser Brynden?"

Your great-uncle walked through the doorway in his dark chainmail and black leathers, his crinkled eyes, his self-assured, crooked smile. For a few moments, you were convinced it was just another vision, just another dead person appearing before you for reasons you didn't understand.

"Well," he said. "It looks as though you're still little enough to fit on my shoulder, after all, killer."

You gasped as your only means of breathing and stepped forth to tuck your arms as far as they'd go around him. You heard him laugh, like the crackle of wood in a fire, and let your tears fall against his leather scales. You kept squeezing him and letting his chainmail dig into your skin, just to be sure that he was really there. Finally, you just had to look at him again. "They told me that you were killed."

"Edmure's one redeeming act." The Blackfish brushed away your errant tears. "He ordered me to be put in chains, after letting the Lannisters and the Freys walk straight into the garrison, but he found me himself. He bloodied his sword, got me on the leg, and told two of my men to get me out of there. It wasn't what I wanted. I was determined to die there before I would run. I almost didn't let them. Then, I remembered. Family, duty, honour." He braced your shoulder and looked down at you grimly. "If I still had family left, it was my duty to defend them. I may be an old fart, but if I still have a sword in my hand. . ." He drew his then, his hands on the hilt, holding it to the stone floor, though he did not kneel. "My allegiance is still with House Stark."

"Then your home is Winterfell," you said.

He turned then to Jon and bowed his head briefly. "I never knew you, Jon Snow, but when I look at you, I see so much of Robb. I loved my nephew, and he was my king. House Tully knows no king but the King in the North. I wish I had been able to answer the call, when Sansa sent me that raven."

"You were defending your ancestral home, under siege by the Lannisters." Jon bid him to withdraw his weapon. "I did not wish to call upon you in that time. There is no debt to be repaid. You are here, now."

Brynden, standing as tall as Tormund and just as wide, tucked one arm around Jon and clapped his back briefly. "I wish I had known you. Your father was a tough man to crack, but he did say to me once that you gave him pride. I'll stand by you in the field of battle."

Jon was almost imperceptibly moved by the mention of Father, and only nodded at first. "We'll be lucky to have you, Ser Brynden."

Your uncle turned then to have a look at Tormund. After a moment, he held out his hand. "Congratulations, boy. I understand you're making an honest woman out of my little killer."

"I already have, grandpa." Tormund bent his head. ". . .Why do they call you the Blackfish?"

He laughed again, that great cackle, and shook Tormund's hand vigorously. "You look exactly like a man who could tear out that bitch Smalljon Umber's neck. Hells, you look like you could chew right through me."

"If she said the word."

Your uncle laughed again, and you breathed out heavily with relief. You hadn't expected he'd take to your marriage to a Wildling at all. He cocked his head at you. "You understand who'll be walking you in the godswood, don't you killer?"

You kept your hand on his arm, still needing reassurance that he was alive and well, but turned back to Baelish, with his calm smile and neat composure. "You have my apologies, Lord Baelish, and my thanks. I was going to let my husband tear your head off your shoulders, but you won't die on this day. Now, how in the fuck did you know about  _any_  of this?"

"My dear Lady, you wound me. Varys may have had his little birds, but my whisperers are all along the known world. This information is, of course, of utmost confidence, and shared only with your uncle."

"I didn't want to lead the Lannisters to the gates of Winterfell," the Blackfish interjected. "The Kingslayer. . .well, I pissed him off, say the least. I managed to meet with a small retinue of my men and we regrouped, but then the Valemen arrived and took us in secret. I have asked Lord Baelish not to reveal that I was alive, at least not while I was recovering the wound on my leg and to my pride."

"You have fighting men?" Jon's eyes grew wide.

Brynden nodded once. "Not many, I'm afraid, but they serve the King in the North. The Stark banners were still hanging at Riverrun as I left it. You have our fealty, Jon Snow. Isn't it time you started calling yourself Stark? Even Catelyn wanted you to be called Stark."

"If I may interrupt, I have much to discuss with you." Baelish turned to Tormund. 

Tormund's eyebrows raised, his mouth a hard line. "I don't think you do."

"Please forgive me, but I must insist. I've been paying attention to your people and your forces. Forgive me again when I say that I did not put much confidence into the Free Folk settling in the Gift. I was mistaken, quite apparently. You've a strong foothold, now, and you  _are_  creating a solid alliance with both House Stark and the Northern Kingdom. As Lord Protector of the Vale, I would like to formally extend a hand to your people, as a show of good faith and of friendship."

"You don't have a long-lost uncle to offer me," Tormund said, his voice low. "And you didn't send your men with a moment's intent to save free men and women."

"Which is why I approach you now," Baelish said. "There's a saying in the south, better late than never. I would that this meeting had occurred sooner, but I  _do_  believe that there's a peaceable relationship to have between the Vale and the Free Folk."

"Tormund." Jon gripped his elbow. "It's worth it to listen."

"I've always heard that it was only the Thenns that were capable of metallurgy, and they were stingy with that technology. Your people are learning to work metal, but Winterfell hasn't been able to afford more than an apprentice to that cause. There are thousands of you, with more arriving, and yet only a few hundred are properly outfitted. I've four smiths and five hundred pounds of steel." Baelish looked to you. "Your wife can tell you, that's quite valuable."

"No," Tormund said. "I'm not making myself, my wife, or my people in your debt."

You gasped loudly, suddenly, and placed a hand to your chest. Your uncle reached you first and helped you to stand straight. Breathing sickness hadn't frightened you since you were a child, but now that you were  _carrying_  one, the thought of not being able to breathe gave you panic, compounding the problem and danger. After a few moments of struggling and beginning to choke, Tormund and Jon crowded around you.

"Step back, lads, step back." Uncle Brynden held your lower face and tilted your chin upward. "That's it, there's a girl. It's getting easier. There you go. What I wouldn't give to have had Edmure strangled up with this mad disease, instead of you girls."

The seizing feeling in your lungs was lessened as your panic fled, but they were still strained, and nausea twisted your stomach in knots.

"Is she all right?" Jon asked.

"Yes, yes, she's fine. Don't fuss over her. Baelish just loaded her up with so much horse shit she couldn't breathe through it, that's all." He winked at you and slowly eased you toward Tormund. "That's enough for now, Baelish. You've taken up enough of their time for now, and there's not much time to go around."

"Certainly." Lord Baelish bowed his head gently. "My dear Lady, if there's anything I can do for you, please don't hesitate to ask. My beloved Lysa was afflicted with the breathing sickness, as you well know, and the herbs that grow in the Vale are stronger. I took the liberty of making sure your maester is well-supplied. You are breathing for two, after all."

You coughed heavily, hanging onto Tormund for support. "I've apologised and thanked you. You've gotten all you're going to get from me today."

Tormund ushered you out of the room, Jon on your other side. "Let's make an agreement not to draw weapons on one another for at least a few days."

You reached out and held his wrist. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. He makes me crazy, Jon, I can't stand that fucker."

"He's little more than a snake, but he's the biggest supporter we've got." He managed a small, abiding, though difficult, smile. "Also, you  _are_  mad and pregnant and a girl."

"No, Jon, really. I shouldn't have said 'I don't care what Jon thinks'. I'll never utter a word to undermine you again, not even with Littlefinger."

Outside, Podrick was still waiting, his hands folded in front of him. When he saw the three of you, he scrambled. "I'll get the maester!"

"Send him to her rooms," Jon called after him. Now he fixed his eyes on you again. "Y/N, about earlier."

"Not now," you insisted.

"She told me she saw that someone was watching us through the heart tree," Jon told Tormund, pointedly ignoring your pleas for quiet.

"Aye," Tormund agreed quickly. "It can be done, Orell could see through weir wood."

You descended into gasping and wheezing again, and the two men moved you as fast as they could to your writing desk with your breathing medicines.

"Stay where you are, Snow." Tormund picked up your heavy changing screen and set it behind you. Once the two of you were afforded this privacy, he reached down to untie the front of your dress so that it wasn't at all constricted anymore.

"Tormund," Jon called from the other end of the room. He'd receded to the doorway, wanting to know you were well again, but also aware of what Tormund had done. "Orell was a warg."

"No shit, Snow." Tormund kissed the top of your head and rubbed your shoulder as you breathed in the vapour as deep as you could. "I'm telling you what I know. All of the Free Folk know about the weir wood."

"And yet you don't seem surprised," Jon led.

You eyed Tormund, your chest still heaving. You couldn't speak yet, but narrowed your eyes in question.

"Maybe she is and maybe she isn't. Just because someone  _could_  look through the weir wood doesn't mean they know what the fuck they're doing. When Orell was a boy, he used to stare at them for hours, but he never told anyone why until he was older and could control the eagle. He said they showed him things."

"Stop." You held on to the edge of your desk, waiting for your head to quit spinning. The worst of it was over. "I'm about to say something to both of you and then I'm through talking about it, for now. No matter what it is, there's not a damn thing that can be done about it. I've had strange dreams. Tormund, your father had a scar right down his face, didn't he? He had yellow hair, and he favoured an axe. And he loved you. Just like you love ours. He turned into one of the Others, and that's why you joined up with Mance, because you KNEW what they were, that they were really out there."

"Bugger me," he said below his breath, his hand actually falling away from you.

"And Jon," you closed your eyes. "Ygritte. When you first saw her, she was wearing a hood and you didn't know she was a woman. You couldn't understand her at first, because she talks differently. I can see the top of the Wall, how you fell all over each other, and Tormund was there." You looked up at your husband and shoved your finger against his chest. "And if you ever do a mad fucking thing like climb that Wall again, I will find you and I will drown you."

He chuckled weakly and stood straight. "Snow, get out."

* * *

 

Later in the afternoon, you took a deep breath and knocked on your brother's bedroom door. When he opened it, he scoffed and moved aside. "I never know what's going on with you anymore."

You lowered down into a plush chaise by the fire. "I'm glad that you've gotten that out, finally. What else have you been trying not to say all this year?"

Jon poured himself a drink and wouldn't look at you, but started to pace the length of the room. "All right, you asked. I haven't had time for you, that's my fault, I suppose, but in my absence, I feel as though you've made a lot of strong and hasty decisions."

"You don't get to say that about me and Tormund now."

"I'm not talking about Tormund. I knew you were going to do it." Jon sneered at you and shook his head. "This isn't about Tormund, it's about YOU. Y/N, you've made a nasty habit of tossing up everything and turning the whole world upside down as it suits you. Did it ever occur to you that maybe I needed you HERE?"

"This morning you went on and on about how I've helped to create a better union in the North--"

"Yes, you HAVE, but my point is that you haven't exactly been the best  _sister_."

"So you can do what? Ignore me like you did  _Sansa_? You're unwilling to listen--"

"Yes, perhaps I am a bit unwilling to listen to a spoiled girl who used to give me the shit eyes for walking by, but you and Sansa are not the same. I trust you. The Blackfish told you the entire history of battle in the Riverlands. Smalljon  _made_  you complicit in the war room. He had you right there, standing by his side, while he and Steelshanks went over strategy after strategy, to pin us down before we made it to Winterfell. You married the toughest son of a bitch I've ever met in my life and he eats out of the palm of your hand--not because his bollocks have shrunk, but because you did well, you chose well. Look at you. Do you know how I worried you were going to wind up a drunk? But you quit drinking at all because you love your baby. You've got a good head on your shoulders. You've got a kind heart still beating in your chest."

"I want you to foster Ned Umber here at Winterfell and give the Mazins control of Last Hearth."

Jon sighed hard and tossed his glass into the fire "You're serious, aren't you?"

"When I told you that I had ideas about what to do to in order to repair the damage done by my marriage, this is what I had for you. You want my mind? You want my council? Then take it. You think I haven't done enough for Winterfell? Then allow for me to raise a child for the better of it."

"It's tantamount to holding him hostage."

"It is a time-honoured tradition within Westeros. Father was fostered in the Vale, Baelish was fostered at Riverrun, Smalljon was fostered by Stannis Baratheon. Maybe he would have been a better man if he hadn't, I don't know, but I know that they will see you as a very desirable foster. You're their king."

"And you don't think they will realise that the leader of their house is going to be raised by Tormund Giantsbane? They despise him. They hate all of them, but--"

You stood and placed your hand over Jon's mouth. "Ned is a little boy and he is not suited to this role. Not yet. He has to learn from great men, and you and Tormund are the best men I know. And the Blackfish. He'll make a terrific grandpa. He never had his own children."

"Did you see all of this in your mind?" Jon winked at you.

"All it took was calling you a great man."

"Aye, that's all it took." Your brother yanked you into a sizable hug. "That and. . .I'm glad you lent me your dumb little brain. I'll work on this."

"Thank you." You squeezed him tighter. "I'll try to do better by you, Jon."

"I'm sorry. For what it's worth, I'm proud of you."

"Oh, don't start with that." You took a few steps back, laughing. "I'll see you at the head of the table, King in the North."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic depictions/descriptions of spousal abuse.

"Are you sure?" you whispered, staring into hard, blue eyes that gazed back at you through the reflection in your mirror. Osha was brushing your hair, and watching the door behind you through the mirror. "You said you would never go back there."

Osha reached down and poked you sharply in the ribcage, digging her finger in,  making you cringe and yelp. She watched your eyes squint tight, tears pressing from the corners. "What did he do now?"

You panted. "Don't do that again, please. It's almost healed."

"I knew it." She continued brushing your hair. "I  _heard_  him. I think the whole castle did."

"Not Rickon and Ned?" You slumped when she said nothing. "I haven't seen them in ages."

"I told them not to squeeze you like they do. He really rung your bell this time. I haven't been able to get to you for weeks."

"What a  _colourful_  euphemism." You rolled your eyes. "He won't forgive it, Osha."

"Aye, he'll beat you to death."

You froze, all except for your hands, which trembled in your lap. "I thought he WAS. I knew that it would be awful, but I almost  _wanted_  to die."

Osha clenched her jaw, working for several moments on your plait. "We haven't got to make it beyond the Wall. My people are in the Gift, that's what's driven him mad. Mance Rayder is dead, and Jon Snow set Tormund Giantsbane free. That's what they said. If that's true, if they're there, they'll help you and your brother get to Snow."

"How do you know that they would?" You leaned back against her.

"Because I know my people. We haven't got to go far, Y/N. Do you know how long we've wanted to taste Umber blood?"

"I  _am_  an Umber."

She scowled and slapped the back of your head.

"Cunt!" You rubbed at the sore spot.

Osha grabbed hold of your braid and lowered her head down beside yours, staring daggers into you in the mirror. "Did he fuck you after he broke your little rib?"

You swallowed.

"I bet he's been fucking you every night since, trying to make a new babe to replace the other one. Is that what you want for the rest of your life? Crying instead of moaning whenever a man touches you?"

"Even if I did  _ever_  escape Smalljon, I'd never let another man touch me."

"You're not dead yet, Y/N Stark." Osha let go of your hair, but held your gaze in the polished metal. "You will be if you stay here, and you'll keep on wishing you're dead until you are. We know Last Hearth. We know how to let them right through the gates. You'd be giving them a stronghold. You're useful to them. They'll get you to Snow, and I'll be back here, breaking that cunt's teeth."

Sighing as well as you could, in spite of the pain that every breath drew, you reached up for her hand. "We can't talk of this now. The walls have eyes and every corner has ears. He won't want to see you, and I know he's coming."

She tilted her head. "How?"

"I know the sounds." You turned to look at her finally. "Go, Osha."

"Say you've changed, and wait," your friend told you.

You watched her go, watched yourself watching her go, knowing now that it was the last you'd ever see her. Usually, your awareness led to awakening, but you were still there, still at Last Hearth, still watching yourself shake in your seat. You watched your back straighten, as yours did now, hearing his heavy boots echoing down the corridor.

"Don't just sit there," you shouted to yourself. One hand on your belly, you stepped closer to your younger self.

Smalljon pushed the door open, but remained there. When you reached for the knife at his belt to plunge it through  _his_  ribs, your fingers went right through, like a ghost. You'd never tried to touch anyone in your dreams, before, and the feeling was unsettling. Even more disturbing, you could see remorse in his eyes.

"Can you stand?" he asked.

You clasped your hand over your mouth now, remembering. Remembering this day. You watched yourself rise from the chair, and how Smalljon came to you. How his hand went gentle to your cheek. How he craned his neck to kiss you.

"Smallwolf." His hair fell around your face. It made you sick just to hear that name again.

"Jon." He hated for you to call him by his common name, and you hated to call him by his true name.

"I know you don't realise it, but I love you."

Watching, you felt yourself gag. At that time, you'd  _craved_  love so much,  _feared_  him so much, that you never once rebuked him. When he kissed you again, you let him. Like a trained dog, you took him in your arms.

"I could be pregnant again," you said blankly to distract him from your inability to reciprocate his sentiments. You hadn't believed him, even then. Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. It never mattered.

"You may not see it yet, but this won't be your regret."

"I do see it, Jon," you lied. That was what Osha wanted you to do. Pretend and wait. You'd thought you were buying time and protecting yourself from more of his anger. "I'm sorry, Jon. I. . .love you, too."

"Was that so hard?" He walked you backward toward your bed. The way he kissed and touched you like a lover made you sick then and now. Winning you was like winning a war. "I leave for Winterfell today, but I'll not kneel for those cunts. I won't kneel for those responsible for killing Robb and my father."

You busied yourself with unbuckling and unlacing various parts of his armour.

" _We_  own the North," Smalljon fervently declared. "Once I've killed these Wildlings and run the rest of them off, you and I take back Winterfell. We  _own_  the North. You may be sore at me. I understand. There's so much you don't know and can't comprehend. You won't stand in the way of me securing our lands. You won't make another mistake with your moon cycle. All you need to know is that I'm your husband, and I decide what's best for you. Think about your choices, lately. Doesn't seem like a girl in control of herself, does it?"

He wasn't going to stop until you agreed with him. "No, I haven't been in control of myself."

Smalljon smiled, so condescending, so twisted in his own vision that he was doing something both correct and necessary, that he was navigating the world for the both of you appropriately. "I should've taken you from Winterfell when you were fifteen. I'd have half a dozen  _strong_  sons by now, rather than that boy."

Unable to continue to watch or listen, knowing damn well what he intended to do with you, you left the room and closed the door, thinking you could get another last glimpse of Rickon, but as soon as the door creaked shut, you found yourself awake and standing in the road that led into Winter Town.

This was a first. You'd woken in bed before, always, every time you pulled away from your not-quite-dreams. It was pitch dark, with few lights behind you and over the hill at Winterfell, and even fewer down the road in the town. How had you managed to walk all this way, still dreaming, without anyone even noticing? With a glance down, you were relieved to see you had dressed in your cloak, but had neglected both shoes and a proper dress underneath. It had grown  _so_  cold.

"Y/N?" With a lit torch, Dim Dalba approached. The old man must've kept watch. "What's happened?" He reached for his axe.

There was no good way to explain yourself, and you didn't completely understand, anyway. When it registered in your sleepy mind that Dim seemed to believe you were running away from danger back at the castle, you placed your hand on his arm. "No, nothing, nothing happened. Do not call the signal, there's no trouble in Winterfell."

"What the fuck are you doing, then?" He looked over you and frowned. "Were you sleepwalking?"

"Erm, yes, I was, actually." You cleared your throat and tucked your cloak tighter around yourself. "I just sort of woke up and I was here."

"Couldn't keep away from him for a single night?" Dim laughed raucously and put his arm around your back, leading you into town. "What bothersome custom made you separate?"

"Not much of a custom, really," you admitted, grateful for him lending some warmth. "My sister just insisted that she and I spend the entire night together to celebrate my last night as an unmarried woman."

Dim huffed, his distaste a sourness on his brow. "You're not an unmarried woman."

"You're precisely correct, but she's afraid I'll up and disappear after tomorrow, and she's still very much in a state of impermanence in her mind. She thinks she has to sink her claws in and hold on to everything or it'll all be gone when she turns away."

"That's what southern girls are like?"

"No. Forgive my sister, she's been in the grips of the Lannisters and the Boltons so long that her mind is still working that way."

"Nothing to forgive." Dim shrugged. "Good enough girl. She sent extra quilts for the little ones and the sick. I knew she would begin to take after you."

" _Really_? I didn't know that."

"Yesterday, it was. The nights are getting colder. It was good of her. You'll send our thanks?"

"Certainly. Now, this is very important: how drunk did you get my husband?"

"Not severely, and he's been asleep quite some time. He's getting old. Ha!"

"Well, then you must have one foot in the grave already."

Before you could make it all the way to your home away from home, Tormund stumbled out of the door. "I thought I heard you. What are you doing here? Why aren't you dressed?"

"She takes after your aunt Tille," Dim called. "Sleepwalking."

You waved goodbye to the old man and squeezed around Tormund to get inside where it was warmer.

Tormund looked alarm, if a bit sleepy still. "Get into bed. I've got to put more wood on the fire to keep you and my little baby warm. Was it one of your dreams?"

You sighed, crawling underneath the dense furs and edging against the wall. "Maybe my little body just missed your big body too much. Oh, I've  _missed_  you, Ginger Giant."

"You just saw me at supper," he remarked.

You crossed your arms at him. "So?"

"Nothing." Once the fire began to crackle and grow larger, Tormund stood awkwardly and stumbled his away back to you. "Don't worry, I missed you too, and the little fish swimming in your belly."

Laughing softly, it was easy to get cosy now, and your lingering discomfort from your dreams began to ebb. "You smell like grain alcohol and talk of fish, so I'm supposing it was my uncle who got you drunk?"

"The very one! He's from much too far south to hate him, and you like him so much, I thought you might like me more if I was nice to him. I  _like_  him, he's not a snotty cunt like the rest of you."

"Ouch. You're worried about me liking you?"

His head tilted on his pillow. "No. . .what's it called? Ah. Pissing you off. I thought it might piss you off if I didn't get drunk with your uncle."

"I suppose in a lot of his own ways, he's like the Free Folk." You pulled his arms around you and sighed happily. "He never would get married, out of pure spite, and began to call himself the Blackfish, out of pure spite, and  _kept_  calling himself the Blackfish, out of pure spite--"

"You people are the spiteful ones, not the Free Folk."

"What I mean is, that man just does not give a single shit," you giggled. "And the Free Folk give no shits at all."

"Tell me about your dream." Tormund had you all wrapped up and snug that it was hard to deny him anything. The memories were no threat to you here.

"I was dreaming about the last time I saw Osha." You closed your heavy eyelids. "I hadn't seen her in weeks. Smalljon would never let anyone but the maester near me after he beat me, and on this one occasion he'd managed to break my rib, so it took a while. She was so angry. She'd heard him, she said, when he beat me the last time, said the whole castle heard, and she was planning to take me and Rickon away from there, into the Gift. She mentioned your name, but I had no frame of reference back then, so didn't recall until hearing her say it again. She wanted to bring us to the Gift and lead you and the Free Folk straight through the gates of the castle and exact revenge for what he did to us all. She'd spoken before about other ways to escape, or plots to kill him, but I knew that she was ready to act. She did't let on her feelings much, but she was my friend, and she was so angry for what he did. Hurt me, humiliated me. I suppose it was just the last straw.

"Then he came. All hugs and bloody kisses and 'I love you'. I think I realise now that he would always have been like that. If we'd been wed, as he and Father intended, he always would have been a condescending shithead who thought that he owned me as much as he thought he owned the North. I was angry at myself for just letting him say all those things to me and letting him touch me and for being so afraid. It was the same day he killed Shaggydog and took Osha and Rickon to Winterfell. Ramsay wound up killing them both. He knew that they would. And he was still so deluded to think that I could have loved him and come to see that he was right all along."

"You told me that he  _didn’t_  love you," Tormund growled.

"He didn't," you breathed. "He may have felt some fondness, but his heart was incapable of love. If he felt anything, it was how badly he wanted to control me and have me love him."

"That life is far behind you now, even if you still see it sometimes."

"I know it is, Ginger Dear. I'm not afraid of him anymore."

"Then his memory will die."

"I know," you whispered.

* * *

 

"I told you that she'd sneak out. I don't have a fucking clue what she likes so much in that mad Wildling."

Sansa sighed with relief and turned around. "It's only you."

Sandor gave her a wry smile, not entirely sardonic, but typical of him. At least, typical of what she remembered. "Yes, little bird, only me."

"I woke up and she was gone, and I worried. . ." Sansa turned away from the window of the battlement, sighing once more. "You were right. You can't imagine all the things I've heard about her."

"I think I can. I hear them, too." Sandor offered her his arm. "Now that she's gotten knocked up, you'll be hearing worse. They're like rabbits."

"Oh, stop!" Sansa chuckled, but blushed deeply as well. "Y/N is my sister, the closest thing to a mother I've got in the world anymore, I don't need to hear your opinions of what she's doing with Tormund. Or what she  _is_  doing with Tormund, for that matter."

"What, she never talks about it with you?"

"Does she talk about it with  _you_?"

"Once, when she quite badly wanted me to leave the room. She got her wish. Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. Jon Snow, the White Wolf. Y/N Stark-Umber-Stark-Wildling, the Perverted Nymph-Wolf." He smiled to himself when she elbowed him. "You better get used to the idea of her being gone, little bird. Wild things always want to fly away."

"I don't believe she will leave Winterfell until her baby is walking and talking, at least."

"You could be well on the way to your own baby, by then. Didn't you tell me you wanted to have lots of babies?"

She blushed again. "Don't be cruel."

"I'm only having fun, little bird. You know I wouldn't hurt you."

"Words can hurt."

"Aye, but not as bad as a knife."

"It's strange to see you dressed so differently," Sansa told him. "You look like a soldier of Winterfell. I remember your white cloak." She bit her tongue before she could reveal that she still had it, to this day.

"Not really a soldier of anything anymore. That was a long time ago."

"Yes." Sansa leaned forward, against him. "It was a very long time ago."

Sandor was frozen, looking all around them to make sure that no one was going to see whatever in the seven buggering hells was going on here. He was uncertain of that, himself. Sansa Stark had her forehead against his chest, both her hands rested gently against his arms, but otherwise remained as immobile as he was. He looked down at her, up again, back to her, still unable to move. "Little bird, what the fuck are you doing?"

"Why did you ask me to kiss you?" she asked softly.

"I completely have no bloody clue what you're talking about." Sandor began to wonder if this was some sort of joke, but no, Sansa wasn't much of a joker.

"You did, and I did kiss you." She stepped back and looked straight into his eyes, her own lost little pools of confused ocean. "Before you left that night of the Blackwater. You asked me to kiss you and I did."

"Sansa, I can assure you that no matter how drunk I was, that absolutely never happened." Sandor pressed the inside of his wrist to her forehead to feel for fever. "I wonder now how much wine your sister gave you."

"Y/N doesn't drink wine anymore, because of her baby." Sansa slapped his hand away, her throat working visibly. "You've no idea how many times I have remembered that night. I should have gone with you."

"If you had, you probably would've wound up dead in a ditch somewhere," Sandor contended. "Girl, I never laid a finger on you. Certainly not my lips. I'm not an idiot, just ugly, pissed, and drunk."

"I would rather have wound up dead in a ditch beside you than raped by Ramsay Bolton over and over again." Sansa turned and quickly walked away, clutching a handkerchief to her face, leaving him to stand there and wonder.

He wondered so damn much that sleep evaded him. He wondered sleeplessly so damn much that he went to your chamber doors and stood in front of them, by around dawn, and when you came in to avoid guests seeing you coming from Winter Town, he descended on you. "What the fuck have you been telling your sister?"

You groaned and tried to push him out of your way. It was a hilarious and piteous failure. "Too early. Too early, Clegane."

He slammed the doors shut after following you inside. You pointedly, dramatically rolled your eyes at his behaviour. "You don't frighten me, Clegane. What ails you now?"

"You told me Sansa wanted to fuck someone that Sansa wanted to fuck, you implied it was me," he yelled.

Now, your eyes widened, just as dramatically. "So you tried fucking her?"

"No I didn't bloody fucking try to fuck her! She was out looking for  _you_  last night and I just so happened to find her, and then she just so happened to start talking about me asking her to kiss me, back in King's Landing--which just so happened to  _never_  happen, and then she runs off crying. I don't know what the fuck to do with that!"

"This is  _fascinating_." You gestured for him to sit beside you at the table. Although your belly was rumbling, you quietly bade your hunger fuck off, and poured yourself a glass of water. "I need  _context_ , Clegane,  _context_ and details. Did she say it accusatorially, or did she say it with wanton abandon?"

"What?" He narrowed his eyes and scoffed at you. "She isn't like you."

"She is. I promise you." You laughed. "Almost every woman wants to fuck as badly as men do, you lot just do a good job at deluding yourselves into thinking that isn't true, and, as you are with me, shaming the ones that prove you wrong."

"Oh fuck off with that, you're not ashamed."

You shrugged. "You're right, I'm not. But Sansa is. Tell me what happened with more particulars and I'll try to sort out the sad affair that is your life, Clegane. I care about Sansa and her happiness. As a fair warning, you have about thirty minutes and then a long and hellacious day begins for me."

"I don't want you to sort out my sodding life," he huffed. "I want to know what you told her."

"I have nothing to tell her  _about_  you, why do you presume that what she did had something to do with me? Your assumption  _should_  be that it has something to do with her and with you." You hugged yourself against the chill air in your room. "Sansa never told me anything about you asking her to kiss you."

"The thing is that I didn't." He began chewing on his lip, looking all around the room, at anything and everything but you. "But she was convinced, and I've no idea why or how."

"How did she  _say_  that it happened?"

"Before I left King's Landing. After I'd offered to take her with me. If you don't know anything, there's no point in talking to you." Sandor paused just as he came to the doors. "I like Sansa. I felt sorry for her in King's Landing. I couldn't save her from everything Joffrey did. Maybe I could've saved her from Littlefinger's plans. Maybe I should've just hit her over the head and taken her from that shit city."

You smiled warmly, but hid it from him by looking down at your lap. He spooked easily. "I'm not here to speculate. I'm honestly not. I'm going to tell you my little piece and then you can go and do whatever you want with it, ignore it, whatever. I don't know just what goes on in her mind, but I do know that, like I told you, you make her feel safe, and that is reason enough for me to beg you to never leave Winterfell. I love her. I want her to be happy again. At the very least, I don't want her life to continue on as though Ramsay Snow were still here alive today. I said the same as her, that, after what Smalljon did to me, I would never let another man touch me. I came back to Winterfell and Jon pointed out this Wildling with blood covering his face--really, covering--and he told me, 'That's the man who killed the Smalljon. He's my friend, Tormund Giantsbane'.

"Smalljon was a rapist, too, he beat me, too, he played games with me, too, he threatened to kill my loved ones in horrific and creative ways, too. On the way to Winterfell, riding with Knights of the Vale as my protection, knowing that Smalljon was dead, I still did not feel safe. I never believed that I would again. Tormund, he smiled at me, this big grin that told me I would be better one day. I knew I was looking at someone who wouldn't hurt me and also was not, you know, my brother, and I just grew so enamoured with him. I was obsessed with getting him to tell me what it  _felt_  like to kill my husband. I was obsessed with this idea that having him fuck me could undo all the painful and unpleasant fucking that Smalljon ever made me do. That isn't why I came to love him. It was, though, what set him apart and gave me just the right amount of hope and confidence. And I do love him, I'm mad for him, I'd die by him, happy. It set off a series of events that led us closer together and led us to love one another. I see my sister look at you and I see that same sort of glimmer of hope and confidence in a woman who only lives day to day, with no belief in any kind of future or that the future even exists. Maybe she just wants you to fuck her, maybe she wants more, again, I'm not here to speculate. Take it as you will, and don't hurt her." You watched as he ducked out of the doorway several seconds later, and sat in the quiet, thinking on it, when Mila came trotting in with wood for your fire.

"Oh, shit," she grumbled. "I thought you was in Winter Town last night, 's why the fire's just embers."

"It's fine."

"It has to be, innit?"

You laughed and shrugged out of your cloak. "I hope you're ready for one of the longest days of your young life."

Mila scoffed, striking her flints. "Oh, bullshit. Just a bunch of ponces eating and drinking themselves into oblivion, then to the godswood for some stupid, foolish ceremony, then back again. You're dramatic. Are you hungry?"

"Yes, quite. If you keep standing so close to the fire, I'm liable to eat you."

The Wildling handmaiden stood and wiped her hands on her pants. "I'll go fetch breakfast, then, and  _aye_ , I'll wash me fucking hands! I won't get anything on your pretty little dresses."

"Wait!" You called. "You're grumpy! Please ask for breakfast for two, and please also request that Lord Umber come and break his fast with me. Don't look at me like that, you little bitch, I said  _please_."

Alone again, you rose, rubbing your tired eyes, and sauntered over to your changing screen to slip into a simple blue dress. It wasn't as though you wouldn't be changing a few more times, still, you thought, so no need to start off with anything showy. Two girls from the kitchens came in while you read a book of Aegon's conquests and set the table for you, a pleasing mix of eggs, hot bread, butter, fruit, and cheese, for which you thanked them. Ned arrived with a guard in tow, who was summarily dismissed, and the boy drifted happily to you and gave you a short hug.

"Happy nameday, Mother." He sat in Tormund's favourite chair and smiled at you brightly.

"Thank you, darling." You grinned back and touched his cheek. "Let's talk and eat. I haven't got very much time to spare today, I'm afraid, but we have some things we should speak about now."

Ned picked up his fork and speared a soft-boiled egg. "What about?"

"Relax, sweet thing. I just wanted to go over a few things with you, and talk to you for a while about how the future will unfold." You so loved those wide, curious eyes. "First thing's first. I wanted to ask if you. . .well, what exactly you understand about my marriage to your father?"

"Well. . .he wanted to marry you because you are lovely and from a Great House of the North. Father never spoke to me very much about it, but he always said that you were very happy together and that soon I would have little brothers to play with. He was lying, wasn't he?"

"What's important for you to know, Ned, is that, no matter what I ever thought or felt of Smalljon, I have always loved you. The best part of marrying your father was my sweet, golden boy, and that has always been you, and always will be." You spread butter over your bread, watching him closely. He still appeared to be happy. "Father stretched the truth when he spoke to you about our marriage, but none of that was to do with you, sweet thing."

He gave a sort of shrug, but nodded. "He never liked me as much as you did."

"Oh, Ned. He did love you, I know it." You reached out and squeezed his hand. "You've been walking through this life with both your parents dead for over a year, and I know that I haven't been able to be there for you as either of us would have liked."

Now his fork clattered to his plate, and he tucked his hand under his chin. "I know it's hard. You're a grown up, so it must be much harder to be a grown up and a Lady. I keep hoping that maybe I'll make a better Lord when I'm a man grown, but. . ."

"Yes, it is very hard, isn't it? It's hard to make all the right choices and it's difficult to think on all the people who depend on you. Darling, do you  _want_  to go back to Last Hearth?"

He shook his head, teary-eyed. "No. I don't want to be Lord Umber. I want to be with you."

"That's what I want, too, darling."

"But I can't."

"You aren't ready to be Lord of Last Hearth," you went on. "One day you may be, and even if you're not, that's okay too, but for now, I believe that what you want and what you need is to be at Winterfell."

"Can I stay?" He wiped his eyes quickly and peered up at you. "I can be good. I'll try my best. I won't bother anyone."

"Listen to me, Ned," you said softly. "I want you to listen very carefully and promise me that you won't discuss this with anyone else."

"I do, I promise!"

You leaned closer across the table, looking into those sad, brown eyes. "I've spoken with your uncle, the King. He would have you as his ward and foster you here, and I would take over that responsibility in his absence. But there are things you need to know before you decide it's what you want."

"I don't care." He wiped his eyes again. "I don't care, Mother, really."

"The first thing is Tormund."

"He's very nice to me, and I know that Wildlings aren't bad!"

"You're a good boy, Ned. Now, Tormund and I are married in the customs of the Free Folk. That's what we call them, okay?"

He nodded eagerly.

"Tormund has told me, more than once, that he would like the opportunity to raise you alongside me. You do not ever have to call him 'Father' or any other such word, you only ever have to call him by his name."

"But what if I wanted to?"

You smiled again at his innocent sweetness. "Then I think that would make him very happy. This is a secret, you understand?"

Again, he nodded. "Yes, Mother."

"Now, you'll be Jon's ward," you reminded him, angling your gaze. "That means that he is the one responsible for you, by the law. And I will have you learn. You'll be his page, his squire, and his steward, eventually. I trust your uncle to provide you with the proper guidance that neither I nor Tormund can offer, as a woman and as a free man."

"Can I stay?" he repeated.

"Yes. Under these circumstances, you may stay in Winterfell and we will arrange for someone trusted to rule in your place over Last Hearth until you come of age. Listen, Ned. You will be properly educated, and you will perform your duties as they are given to you. When you are not busy with these things, and only then, may you go and play, spend time with us, things of that nature." You grasped his hand again. "There's two more secrets I need for you to keep, but they're important for you to understand. Okay?"

The boy was practically levitating from his seat.

"Tonight, after supper," you began, your enthusiasm slowly reaching his. "King Jon will ask for the guests of Winterfell to join us in the godswood, and he will marry Tormund and I in the eyes of the law and the old gods."

"Can I stand beside Tormund?" Ned practically shouted.

You smiled, but held your finger to your lips. "I'm sure he won't mind, as long as you ask him. He may still be sleeping. He and my uncle Brynden, well, they celebrated a bit too much last night. I'm sure he'll be along soon, though, and then you may speak with him--in  _private_ , Ned. Now. The other big secret." You stood and smoothed your dress over your belly to present your growing, albeit small and negligible, bump. "One day soon, you'll have a little brother or sister. That's top secret."

"Oh, Mother, really?" Both his sticky hands went straight for your belly. At least it wasn't a dress you'd be wearing for long. "Can I feel him move?"

You laughed. "Not for a while yet. You'll have to wait. Do you understand me though, Ned?"

"Yes, I promise. I swear, I'll be very good and I'll work my hardest and I'll be a good big brother. And I won't tell anybody."

"I know, sweet thing. We should eat now, there truly isn't much time today, but soon the proper arrangements will be made. Until then, keep those lips sealed."

Ned resumed eating with renewed gusto, speaking a mile a minute as he went about his happiness and excitement. You wiped his face carefully after your meal was finished and settled down on your knees beside him, giving him a warm embrace.

"I love you, darling. I probably won't see you until supper, and even then, I probaby won't have much time to speak. I've got to eat quickly and then slip away."

Now, hours later, you were walking quickly back to your chambers with Sansa, holding each other's arms, laughing quietly all the way. You whispered to each other occasionally, and, wisely, you never mentioned Sandor Clegane. Once Sansa had you seated in front of your mirror, she drew in a deep breath.

"All right," she pressed her hands together. "I've been thinking of about a crown of braids. Or, if you want, I could have one of the maids bring an iron for the fire and we can put curls in your hair."

"Oh, not too much trouble," you cautioned her. "We haven't got a lot of time, and the whole thing will be over in seconds, anyway. I'll be quite pleased, too, for it to be over, and to get all of these damned people out of my home so things can go back to normal."

Rose appeared suddenly and dropped her head lazily to your lap. You smiled at her and brushed her brindle coat with your fingertips. Sansa braided and unbraided your hair many times, cursing under her breath. While she worked and cursed and did her work over again, you began to breathe easy, again. The last few days alone had been so intense, so packed with events and arguments and meetings and courtesies that it was all too exhausting. It was expected for the guests to begin their departure the next day, and you expected that some might be displeased enough to mount their horses and ride on this night.

As you enjoyed the warm and quiet of the room, Sansa would tug when you relaxed your neck too much.

You sought her eyes in the mirror. "Sansa-wansa?"

She scoffed and made a terrible face. "I haven't heard that since before I went to King's Landing. Gods, that was so long ago."

You decided to bite your tongue and not bring a damper onto her night. Your questions could wait.


	12. Chapter 12

By the time Sansa was finished, tiny sprays of baby's breath were tucked and pinned into the simple crown plait she'd woven into your hair. As she moved this way and that, admiring her work and commenting on what a beautiful bride you'd made, Mila eventually came into the room. The girl, perhaps thirteen, was wearing a simple dress for the occasion. You gasped.

"I never thought I'd see the day," you winked at her.

Mila frowned down at her skirts, then at you. "Twat."

"It can't be time already," Sansa groaned.

"It's not my fault you can't tell time. Just look out the window!" Mila leaned out the door and whistled. Before you could ask, Naiah and Dahild trotted quickly inside, holding your dress in its package.

"What are they doing here?" Sansa asked, tilting her head. Surprisingly enough, she seemed only to be mildly inquisitive, rather than a precursor to a fit.

"She may've been yours before, but she's ours now." Dahild touched your hair gently, her smile approving. "Sammy, good job."

" _Sansa_ ," you corrected.

"All your names are ridiculous," she retorted.

Outside the door, Rose pawed at the wood and began to whine. Mila grumbled something about an idiot dog and opened the door for her.

"Perfect timing." Naiah crouched down and placed a wreath of flowers and herbs over the wolf's head. Rose snuffled, then sneezed, but didn't appear averse to her new ornamentation. Naiah scratched her behind her ear. "Jon Snow was looking like he had honey and ants down his pants, last I checked. We should get Y/N into her frilly little dress so Tormund has something to rip off his queen."

"Oh, no," Sansa said. She helped Mila unpack the dress. "It turned out so lovely. Don't let him destroy it, you should keep it and one day your daughter can wear it to her wedding."

You smiled softly at her sentimentality, her presumptuous nature, and at the realisation of just how much  _you_  had changed. "It's only a dress, even if it is a pretty one. What I'm wearing isn't what matters."

"I've always wanted to see one of these odd little weddings." Dahild sighed and began removing your clothes without preamble. "I suppose it does seem kind of sweet. Why does it matter where you do it, though?"

"We wed before the heart tree so that the gods can bear witness," you told her.

The women of the Free Folk all looked to each other, wearing little grins as they returned to their tasks. "The gods aren't the only ones who look through the eyes of the weir wood trees."

You swallowed your heart, but tried not to let on. Your friends, maid, and sister helped you into your white wedding gown as Sansa remarked what a better shape it was than her own. You even managed to smile at your own reflection. Truly, it  _was_  a lovely dress, lined with soft fur and beaded intricately at the bodice, and it  _would_  be a shame if Tormund were to rip it. . .

"Y/N, you wouldn't have been able to get away with this a week from now," Dahild touched your belly. "You're only on this side of not being able to tell through your clothes. Next week or so, it'll just give a little 'pop!' and you'll be showing well enough for it to be seen."

Naiah appeared at your side again, tremors of excitement in her hands. You'd never seen her in such a way, before. "Dalla and her boy died. Now there's reasons to hope again, and a new little babe on their way, a king and queen with their shit actually together."

"Aye." Dahild put her arm across your back and squeezed Naiah's shoulder. "We won't be the last of the Free Folk, after all."

"No, we won't." You smiled at them both in the mirror and gently pulled away. "Will you be in the godswood?"

"Aye, that's where we're going." Dahild hooked her arm into Sansa's and dragged her along. "Off with us, Sammy."

"But I was going to--"

"No, you weren't." Naiah tugged her along by the other side, and Mila closed the door behind herself. Confused by what you'd just seen, you had a few short moments of being alone. It was unexpected. Rose was the only other creature in your rooms, and she was snoozing before the fire. You looked down at the tray of cosmetics Sansa had brought to your room, but decided firmly against using berry stain on your lips or rouge on your cheeks.

Almost as an afterthought, you toed into your shoes. Again, your thoughts were on the peace that tomorrow would bring, returning to normal, preparing for your child. . .The exodus of all your guests. Paradise.

Three long underhanded knocks made you tilt your head. "Tormund? That had better not be you."

"'Fraid not. Come along, it's time."

"Dim?" You plucked up the Stark-coloured cloak Mother had worn at her wedding, something Sansa had managed to find, and pulled it onto your shoulders. With the hood on your head, you opened your doors.

The old man stuck his arm out at an angle. "C'mon."

"Where's my uncle?"

Dim scoffed. "There's more than one man willing to walk you. Arrangements were made. I'll be taking you first. Come along now, lass. They're waiting for you."

You smiled and graciously took his arm. The corridor was warm, and for the first time, you felt some excitement settling over you for this event. Your assumption from the beginning was that none of the Free Folk would be present at all. Now, some of your favourite people, people you'd missed dearly in your absence from Winter Town in the past weeks, were apparently pleased enough to join.

At the turn of the hall, standing between two sconces, arms held stiffly to his sides, was Kyr. Tormund absolutely hated the young Thenn, and made several good arguments for why you should, too, but, in spite of it all, you couldn't. Dim was even scowling when Kyr extended his arm.

"Old man," Kyr nodded to Dim. You pushed ahead to ease the tension between the two men. He looked down at you as you walked. His face was heavily scarred in a spiderweb-like design, and he was always quite sombre, but after swearing he would never consume your flesh when you first met, he'd been surprisingly informative, answering as many questions as you had about the history of his culture, the most advanced of the Free Folk. "What?"

You smiled and shook your head. "When was all of this orchestrated?"

He shrugged minutely. Nothing much ever seemed to faze him. "This isn't a Free Folk tradition, but Tormund's said that it was the way, the smart thing to do, and he's right, the fucker."

"With as advanced as the Thenn were, excepting the people-eating part, how were there not marital customs? We even keep the same gods!"

He paused just before you reached the doorway leading outside. "If you want to learn more, you only have to ask. Not on this day, however, so stop running your mouth. Tormund isn't a popular man among my people. My father was Magnar, and they hated each other. By extension, you are not the most loved."

"Very flattering to say to a woman on the way to her own wedding."

Powdery snow drifted down to your feet, and after looking at you for a long moment, Kyr reached inside his sleeve and held something out on his flattened palm. In the centre was what looked like a tiny, bronze feather on a hair comb. Of all the things that a Thenn could have had up his sleeve, this was certainly one of the least expected outcomes.

Without waiting for further permission, Kyr tucked it to one side of your braids and stood back. Everyone, you realised, seemed gargantuan in comparison to you. You touched the warm metal, unable to keep the curiosity and question from your eyes.

"Thank you," you said slowly.

"Things have changed," Kyr told you, taking another step back. "I'm not much like my father, and what's left of the Thenn will not rally around my words of what's our greatest bet for survival. You are decent. You're the only one that has been. Now the Free Folk have accepted you and taken you in as their own. I won't lie to you or paint what I'm saying and doing in a false light; you're the only one that I can see at the moment who can stop the Thenn from being ostracised. It may be using you, but it can benefit you. I can  _make_  it benefit you."

Truly, you could count this among the strangest conversations you'd ever had. There was no time for questions, as he'd pointed out, and it did not come across as a  _complete_  lie. Even if you came from the outside, you certainly were better-accepted than any of the remaining Thenn. Without the necessary time to think about what you were doing or saying, knowing only that you kept people waiting, you did your best to smile and placed your hand on his elbow. "I'll talk to you. Okay?"

Kyr looked at your hand, which you pulled away quickly, then at you, then nodded. His hand closed over your forearm and he took you along to the Yard, where Wun Wun stood waiting.

The somewhat rough treatment and its distinct difference from all your previous interactions with the man fled from your mind. A wild smile took over your face, for there was an actual, living giant, waiting to take you to the godswood of Winterfell. At first, all you could do was laugh in disbelief and gather your skirts in both hands as you approached him.

"Is this  _really_  happening?" You turned back to look at Kyr, who stood a respectable distance away. Rather than answer, he simply looked up at the presumably last giant alive and spoke in the Old Tongue. Wun Wun nodded once to indicate his understanding, then looked down at you and pointed in the direction of the godswood.

"You did him a good turn," was all Kyr had to offer for any of this. You could hear him walking behind you, some yards away, and heard him take his axe into his hands when you reached the candle-lit forest, where your uncle awaited.

The old curmudgeon took a deep breath and held it upon seeing you, played it off as laughter and held you close. "Killer, if anyone ever told me I'd be at any wedding where the bride has an armed Thenn guard and a giant escort, I think I would have put an arrow through their brain to save them from their own madness and misery."

You beamed at him when you were able to pull away. "Uncle, this is Wun Wun and Kyr. They're my people."

Brynden held out his elbow and winked at you. "Time to trade you off like cattle, lass."

Wun Wun stayed behind, but Kyr kept up his distant pace all the way through the trees. Before you got near the heart tree, there was already a row of armed men on each side of the path; Umbers and their vassals with their swords drawn, holding the blades to the ground, and Free Folk, each one with a weapon drawn, each one watching you pass closely. You looked to your uncle, but he only shook his head, his crooked smirk never leaving his lips.

To the side of the heart tree stood the three men you most admired and loved, and once your eyes first set upon Tormund's fiery beard, you could feel the itching of tears threatening to surface. At your last wedding, you remembered being overcome with tears as well, but now, they were all for joy, all for love. Ned smiled his little gap-toothed smile at you, holding the folded bride's cloak in his arms. Jon stood straight with his hands folded in front of him and gave you the slightest of nods when you and your uncle came to stop before him. When you dared look directly at Tormund again, thinking that you were safe from tears once more, you saw him frozen, his eyes wide and wild.

"It is not within the customs of the Old Gods or the New," Jon spoke, taking you from your reverie. "But I will say some words before beginning this ceremony to join my beloved Y/N in marriage to the man she loves. I am Jon Snow, bastard son of Ned Stark, and I stand here before you today as the previous head of House Stark, the previous Lord of Winterfell, and the current King in the North. I did not ask for any of those titles and have passed Winterfell on to Y/N. Most of you here know it's not easy to grow up a bastard, but one thing that I have known my whole life is the love of my sister. Her acceptance of me, when no other would. I have never known a stronger woman, save my own Ygritte or our sisters, Sansa and Arya, and, tonight, the Free Folk will add this strong and courageous young woman to their numbers. As your king, and as a friend of the Free Folk, I ask that you do the same.

"The thousands of years of struggling between our people is not lost on me. I began as a spy among the ranks of the Free Folk, I lied to them, I betrayed them, I betrayed the woman of the Free Folk that I loved, but, when the time came that it was right, that it was wise, that it was the only solution for either of us, I went to this man, Tormund Giantsbane, a man I had recently seen battle like no other, a man I had recently shot through the leg, and asked him for peace.

"Tonight, we all make peace. Tonight, the joining of these two souls will also represent the joining of our people, our unification for the fight against those that bring the Long Night, and for the future, when we rebuild these two great nations. Tonight, I stand beside Tormund Giantsbane once more, as his friend, his ally, and his brother both in arms and by law, and I ask, who comes before the Old Gods this night?"

The Blackfish straightened his shoulders and squeezed your arm gently. "Y/N, of the House Stark, comes here to be wed by her king, to her king. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. Who comes to claim her?"

Between the softness of your uncle's gaze, the power and beauty of Jon's words, you were unsure if you were prepared for when Tormund took a step forward. His chest rose, along with his chin, and he took a deep breath. "Tormund Giantsbane, of no house, heir to no lands." Tormund was staring at you now, looking as though every inch separating you from him was more than he could bear. Several seconds passed. He'd forgotten. Jon turned his head ever slightly toward Tormund, and, momentarily, little Ned, still holding the cloak that was almost as big as him folded, nudged Tormund gently. "Oh. Who gives her?"

"Ser Brynden, of House Tully, who is her great uncle, who feels great pride." The Blackfish peered down at you, still holding your arm, and it looked quite difficult for him to let go, to step aside. The sound of the snow crunching beneath his boots as he struggled to force himself away was all that could be heard, other than the whisper of the wind and the ever slight, ever present rustle of blood red leaves above.

Jon turned to you now, keeping his face as stoic and strong, just as Father would have. "Lady Y/N, will you take this man?"

You felt yourself blush and lowered your head to hide it from those who looked on. "It is an honour and my greatest joy to take this man."

You heard and felt Tormund approaching you, but rather than taking you to kneel before the heart tree as was intended, he pulled you in and kissed you. Behind you, the Free Folk began to cheer. Some whistled. Some of them called out a few not-quite-appropriate things. It could hardly even register. There were a hundred people, if there were ten, there in the godswood with you, but you barely registered the feel of their eyes on you, nor their words.

Soft applause broke out among the Westerosi guests when your lips parted and Tormund moved in to hug you tight. You felt his beard tickling your ear. "Not even death could keep us apart."

You swallowed hard and kept your eyes screwed shut to keep the tears away. "I know."

When your bodies separated, you turned, smiling, before your guests, all of them your people, and felt your brother lift the cloak that had once been your mother's from your shoulders. The one that you and Sansa had spent so many hours making was lovely, and felt warm and perfect and right when Tormund pulled it around you.

Thank the gods, it was  _over_.

The world was grey and black and white, and the only bits of colour you could see were his eyes. Facing each other again, he put his hands on your waist and kissed your hair. "I don't know what the fuck to do now," he whispered.

Jon swooped in then, standing in front of you both to afford you the tiniest bit of privacy. "While the bride and groom proceed to the rest of their first night as man and wife, the Great Hall of Winterfell is already prepared for the festivities of its guests. Please join me, Sansa, and the Blackfish for drink and more food. No arms will be permitted to enter the room."

You smiled sheepishly at Tormund and took his hand. "Let's go then, love."

The guards that followed the two of you to your bedchambers scampered when Tormund bellowed at them to clear away. Rose plopped down just outside the doors, which your husband barred in short order. A servant had tended the fire during the wedding so that it was warm and soothing to your cold nose and hands. All around you, the surroundings were the same as they had ever been, but still shrouded in a newness that thrilled and delighted you.

Your attention was caught by the sound of Tormund throwing his gloves to the floor, soon followed by his hands touching the soft samite of your dress, the smooth beads, your chilled skin. . .When his hand reached your face, you covered it with your own, smiling up at him.

"There was something about it all," he said, other hand coming to the small of your back to pull you closer. His head tilted, he bit his lip. "There was something about all of it that seemed less mad and pointless. I've spent the last weeks wishing it would just end, but there was something right about it all."

"I love you," you blurted, blinking quickly as a few errant tears ran down your smiling face. "Gods, I just love you. No one could ever try to make us part now."

He laughed, low and wicked, and moved his hands down to your ass. "I would love to meet the idiot who would ever have tried."

"What Jon said, all of it was right," you went on, stepping backward as he advanced. The end of the bed met the back of your legs, and you let yourself fall to the feather mattress. "We made peace, tonight." You slapped his hands before he could pull on the fabric of your dress. "Don't you dare! I want to save this dress always. I'll be able to look at it and at once be transported back to that moment that I first saw you in the godswood."

"Buggering hells, it doesn't untie like the others," he complained. "If you aren't naked in the next few seconds, I won't be responsible for what happens to this bloody dress."

You assisted him, guiding his hands. Your heart began to race the same way that it had the first night you brought Tormund to your bed. You began to laugh breathlessly as Tormund removed your bridal gown. "I feel almost like a maiden again."

"Almost?" Tormund's shoulders rolled and flexed as he began to disrobe. "Fuck does that even mean, you mad thing?"

When you could, you sat up, pressing your hands flat against his bared back, kissing him hard and with utter abandon. Your nails bit and dragged on his skin, making him growl into your mouth, making him pull your thighs around his hips. You began to roll yours and moan softly when he reached down between you and touched you so achingly sweet between your legs. His eyes never left your face.

"I mean," you sighed, "I feel anticipation and tightness in my stomach, but at the same time, I  _know_  how good I'm about to feel. . .not afraid, just wanting to fuck you until these walls fall down around us."

Tormund pushed your onto your side and pressed his chest to your back, his teeth against the nape of your neck. "You've been my wife a long time," he reached between your legs again, made you squirm. "You've been mine since the first time I had you. I didn't know what you wanted when you brought me here, the first time. . ."

"Tormund. . ."

"But imagine my buggering shock and awe when this lovely, sweet southron girl sat down in me lap and asked me to fuck her properly. . ."

You pulled his other hand to your breast, completely taken by his words, his touch, the way his voice brought goosebumps to your skin.

"I fucking wanted you half a second after you curtseyed the first time, I wanted to steal you then and there, did you know that? Blood gushing out of me face, and I still wanted a taste of you! I wanted to feel this tight pussy and hear exactly how you sound. . ." He laughed low in your ear, pressing his fingers inside you. "I should have taken you. Stolen you right out from under Winterfell's nose. Their pretty little jewel."

"I want to be stolen again," you whispered, squinting your eyes tightly. You tried to roll back toward him, but his strength kept you were you were. The room felt suddenly too warm to bear, and you couldn't help yourself from twisting and fidgeting. His body was so solid, so hot against your skin, and all you could want was more, more, more. Before you could breathe another word, Tormund moved his hand from your breast to cover your mouth.

"Oh, you will be stolen again. Stolen away, far from Winterfell, fucked out in the open underneath the moon and the stars. . ." He nuzzled your neck, causing you to shout behind his hand. "You just get wetter the more I talk about it, Lady Y/N."

You gasped sharply when you felt him bump up between your legs, his hand pulling them apart. He still kept his other hand clamped against your mouth, preventing anything but the softest of noises from escaping, but he kissed your neck in recompense.

Entering you from this angle, your legs so close together, was something of a challenge. Tormund tucked his forehead against your shoulder and alternated between hissing and breathing hard against your skin. In his effort and the profound pleasure of being inside of you, his hand slipped away from your lips.

He felt so big and thick and  _warm_ , the drag of him, in and out, feeling yourself pulse around him. . .You fought your bodily instincts to stretch, to arch your back, for all you wanted now was to be safe in the confines of his arms and able to let go completely. Your body rocked forward and back along with his, and you were almost a singular creature for a time, bound together by physical intimacy, the gods, the law, and such a love you never knew existed.

There were the beautiful colours again.

Some time later, lying in the same spot, feeling small and exhausted and contented and every good thing you'd ever wished for, your eyes were closed, and you spoke together quietly. Tormund was still behind you, but relaxed now, his arm draped across your middle and his face pressed against your hair. You began to laugh, softly, just about to rebuke him for one of his more raunchy, deplorable jokes, when a bloom of dread erupted in your belly.

You sat up suddenly, with Tormund calling your name lazily, and then you heard it. The soft sound of someone crying and an open palm slapping against your doors.

For a moment, you froze. Panic seized you inside and out as Tormund cursed heavily and rushed about for pants for himself and a robe for you. You had ignored every thought of the Red Wedding for weeks, and Jon had assured you that there would be security, that no weapons would be allowed in the Great Hall. . .

Once you were covered and he was somewhat clothed, Tormund opened the doors and Sansa poured in, falling against him. He held her up, saying her name, now, awkwardly trying to hold her steady and ultimately forced to carry her over to you on the bed.

While you waited to hear the news of the worst, still frozen, still wracked with such a chilling panic that you felt you might vomit, Tormund finished dressing and reached for Tall-Talker.

"Gods  _damn_  it, Sansa," he thundered. "What's happened? Tell me now!"

Her face was almost as red as her hair, and she was in such a state of hysterics that you'd never seen before. Her eyes leaked constant tears and she was just stammering, staring at you, holding herself tightly against you, sobbing uncontrollably. After several seconds of this, you reached back and slapped her, hard, across her cheek, leaving an angry mark. Sansa touched it, then pressed her face against your shoulder, crying weakly.

"Sansa!" Tormund shouted.

"She said your name," Sansa wailed against your skin. All heart and hope was lost from her voice, and only grief remained. Sandor Clegane pushed his way inside the room suddenly, looking aghast and half-drunk and uniquely nervous. Sansa practically wrapped herself around you, her whole body shaking.

You looked beyond her, toward your husband and the Hound, mortal terror shifting all that was beautiful into a deep abyss. "W-what h-h-happened?"

Sansa screamed anew, her hands gripping you so tight, her nails leaving bloody marks along your shoulder and arm. "She said your name. She closed her th-throat and she said your  _name_ , she wanted you!"

Tormund left the room growling and grunting and shouting, hells-bent on finding  _whatever_  the danger may be, this terrifying, confusing condition. Sandor, still looking strangely, shaken, which scared you further, shoved the doors shut and held his arm braced against the heavy wood.

You held your sister. You were unable to do anything more than this, to hold this girl you'd loved like your own since she came screaming into this world. You hadn't been able to be there for her, to hold her like this, all that time in King's Landing, all that time with Baelish, all that time kept prisoner by her husband. Your own fear, your own needs, they shrank as this woman grown clung to you in tears and frantic breaths.

"Fuck me," Sandor lowered his head. He shook it slowly from side to side, then turned to you. "Fuck, buggering hells, shit, piss. Sansa. Sansa, quiet. Y/N, slap the shit out of her."

"I already did," you retorted. "Tell me what's wrong, tell me now!"

He sighed again and held a bottle you hadn't seen before to his lips, drinking deeply. "I don't know how the fuck or why," he began. "Your mother is here."


	13. Chapter 13

 

The red velvet passed along your fingertips. You set it aside. The next was white with lace sleeves. Not appropriate for the weather, or possibly the occasion. Finally, you found the one. The heaviest black silk, the shoulders trimmed with peacock feathers, always bringing to mind some grand epaulets, something a Targaryen queen of long ago would have worn. Silver chains webbed the plunging neckline, and the train was emblazoned with more of the dark, dark feathers of a bird that lived and died many years ago, a thousand miles away.

"If you're quite fucking finished with dragging out every bloody dress in that trunk," Sandor shouted. "I'd love to know what the fuck you plan on doing about  _this_."

You stood, the dress folded over your arm, and studied the sight before you. Your sister had dragged herself into the Hound's lap, and her face was covering the burnt portion of his as she whimpered, muttered, and shook herself into further hysteria. "Would you rather deal with her or help me into this dress?"

He sneered from his spot at the end of your bed, his face half-covered in Sansa Stark's tears. "Will it even still fit?"

"You know you can't see it." You walked behind your changing screen and watched your hands tremble amid the inky fabric you held between them. Somewhere, you could hear shouting, and among the voices was Tormund's. You clenched them into fists, then pulled off your robe. Your skin was cool, and the silk was so light and decadent. "What I need you to do now, not for me, but for Sansa, is to take her to her rooms and keep her there. Do not let her out, do not let anyone else in. You have to put her to sleep before she harms herself."

"How? You want me to just slug her one across the face?"

You sighed, pulling your sleeves down, and stepped out, looking at yourself sideways in the mirror. You scoffed. None could see, if they knew not where to look. On your desk was one of the vials the maester had left the night of your miscarriage. You tossed it his way. "Nightshade. Not too much, gingers are sensitive to it." You rolled your eyes at the incredulity in his. "Tormund tore a ligament in his shoulder a few months ago. It was almost impossible to get him to take it to begin with, and then he had too much and spent a night sweating and hearing strange noises in the walls."

He was gone, along with Sansa and the nightshade, before you'd even finished brushing your hair. You braided both sides of your crown and twisted it all into a chignon toward the back of your head. You frowned at yourself for a few moments in your polished metal mirror, wondering absently where Tormund was, and how many he had possibly killed.

With your cloak fastened around you, you left your bedchambers, your boots creating a satisfying click with each step, instilling you with a new vigour. Before you turned the corridor, two men joined and flanked you, their spears thunking down on the granite before each footfall. You didn't look. You didn't know if they were Stark, Umber, or Free Folk, and it didn't matter. They would only be escorts, this night, not guards. You spoke to each guard you did see along the way, instructing some to stand outside Sansa's door, another to bolster the security around Ned. Podrick Payne appeared, breathless from running, as you ever saw him, patches of red on the cheeks beneath his great, sad eyes.

"My Lady, Your Grace, please, you walk towards--"

You held out a hand. "Pod, your concern and vigilance are appreciated greatly. Did Jon tell you to find me?"

He shook his head. "My Lady, please, this is no sight you should see. Your Lady Mother--"

"I am Lady of Winterfell and queen of the Free Folk. There is no sight in this world that could stop me from what I must do, and you would do quite well to remember that. Where is Jon?"

A menacing growl ripped through the shivering night, and you looked over your shoulder before turning to follow the sound.

Of course. She was near the sept.

Ghost stood between the undead corpse that was your mother and Jon, every hair on his body raised, although Mother was calm as a pond. There were winter guards and several of the Free Folk, including Kyr, Dim, and Naiah, standing in a wide circle around her.

"It doesn't go this way, Snow." Kyr moved forward after spotting you, out of your way.

"Where is Tormund?" You stopped, twenty paces from your mother, and stood firm, boot heels tucked together, as she turned her milky eyes to you.

"Y/N," Jon approached from the side, and you noticed his hand on the pommel of Long Claw. "Please, go back to your rooms, I will handle this for you. I'll protect you."

"I'm not a little girl in need of protecting," you said, never taking your eyes off of what was once Catelyn Stark.

"Would you have me slice her head off her neck?" Kyr asked, his father's axe gripped tight between his palms.

"No." You stepped a few paces closer to Mother, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the disgusting medley of rancid fat and fetid skin that used to her cheek. She looked exactly as she had, in your dream, down to the holes in her dress and the missing bit of ear and hair.

Ghost howled to the full moon through the mist, and his sister ran through the muddy ground, coming before you and your mother, snarling and snapping and growling more viciously than Ghost had before. You heard some whispers and more than one gasp. Hardly any of those around you had ever seen Rose do anything but romp and play and run into walls.

"Darling," you said to her softly. Rose pawed at the dirt and quit snarling, though she refused to move away. After looking over your companion animal for a moment, you rounded your shoulders, stiffened your back, and faced your mother. Any sadness or pity you may have had before was dead, along with the child she had killed inside you. It was rage that burned within you, and, for a moment, you would have loved nothing more than to see Rose rip her to shreds.

The body of Catelyn Stark mouthed your name, but any sound was lost as a horrible gurgle in the gaping slash of her neck.

"You were once Lady of this castle," you said, projecting your voice. "But no longer. Not since your death. Those that committed the treachery are dead and burned, their ashes returned to the dirt to become a part of the world once more. I do not know the reasons for your resurrection and I do not understand why you would drag your wretched carcass into Winterfell, but it is not where you belong. You are an abomination, at best an evil, vengeful creature of the night, at worst a harbinger of death and destruction, which  _will_  not befall this castle again,  _will not_  befall my people.

"Whatever you are, possessing the form of my beloved mother, you will not be permitted to leave. I, Y/N Stark, Lady of Winterfell, trueborn daughter to the true Catelyn Tully and Eddard Stark, sentence you to death by beheading. The body you possess will then be dismembered into seven separate pieces and burned upon a funeral pyre so that you may never return. By the Old Gods and the New, I will carry out your sentence with my own two hands at nightfall tomorrow. Guards?"

Four men stepped forth, each somewhat hesitant.

"Listen to my words carefully. Seize this creature, wrap her entire body in chains, and take her to the cells. She is to be watched at all times."

"My Lady." Thoros approached from your right, Tormund holding him between himself and Tall-Talker, barred across the Myrish man’s chest. Tormund had a cut on his forehead, but Thoros' nose appeared to be broken. He was driven to distraction when he laid eyes on your mother's living corpse. "Well, I see why the capturing now."

Tormund shoved him to the ground and pointed at Catelyn. "I don't trust you, Red Wizard," he hissed. "Did you think it would be clever to do this to my woman on her nameday?"

Thoros never looked away from her. "I. . .I don't know what precisely has happened, but I had no part in this."

A troubled-looking Beric Dondarrion came running after, his sword drawn, his eye patch askew. "The Brotherhood Without Banners were over a hundred leagues away during the Red Wedding. You can ask your own sister. The little, meaner one."

"I believe you." You watched as the guards cautiously seized your mother, but she made no move to stop them. Her milky eyes remained, so it seemed, on you. "All of you assembled here, I ask that you leave to your beds. I do not extend the invitation to guests to witness the execution of the former Catelyn Stark. I ask that for respect for my family, you understand and support our wishes in these tragic circumstances, and please pray that the soul of my mother is returned safely to the gods."

Tormund reached you before the people around you dispersed, wrapping his arm around you and holding his face against your ermine cloak. "What a fuckin' nightmare."

"Thank you, Ginger Giant." You moved to discreetly kiss his hair.

"For what?"

"When you believed that Thoros of Myr had wronged my family, you went to find him on your own." You smiled weakly when he stood to his full height again. "But I have a feeling he'll have to be invited to our celebrations in Winter Town, now."

"We certainly wouldn't turn down an opportunity for a good time." Thoros stepped closer, his hands folded before him. "No harm was done. A man will do many things to protect his family and his wife. I'll still be choking down the goat's milk, however."

"Priest." Tormund bent his head with some begrudging reverence, then tilted it towards you. "Are you certain he's beyond suspicion?"

"Quite." Beneath both of your cloaks, you took his hand. "I expect your full cooperation in discovering who is behind this, my dear Myrish."

"As the Lady wishes." Thoros made a show of kneeling, waving his sword about, even setting it aflame. You rolled your eyes and nudged at him with the toe of your shoe. "You'll meet me before the fire on the morrow?"

"Yes, of course. The usual one. And have our apologies, please." You smiled as you watched him leave, one arm loped over Beric's shoulder. "He's been a good friend. You trust me, don't you?"

"Aye," Tormund nodded. "I don't know if I trust him as well as you do, but you spend more time with the rum-stinking prick. If you think he didn't do it. . ."

"It was very reasonable for you to think of Thoros, given what you saw the Red Witch do to Jon. Thoros respects the Starks. He thinks we have magic in our blood. They are also many things, but they aren't deceitful. Sandor Clegane looked almost scared when he burst in after Sansa earlier, and he would have known. They've been here weeks, they wouldn't have been able to hide her either here or in the wood, not with all these hunting parties. I don't know where she came from. I almost don't care." You looked, but Jon had vanished. "I shall execute her tomorrow."

" _You_  are?" Tormund frowned at your frown. "It's your mother. Don't you have some executioner? What about Jon? I'll do it for you. You shouldn't have to look at that loathsome beast, let alone fuckin' kill it."

You shook your head, squeezing his hand and walking with your head down toward your rooms. "Father taught us that he, or in this case she, who passes the sentence should swing the sword. I am the Lady of Winterfell. I cannot hide like a frightened girl behind you or my brother or some anonymous executioner in a hood. I've been doing that too long."

"You've not," he protested. "I mean that. No one thinks of you as a frightened girl, but if it's what you must do, then you will. I know you will."

You closed your eyes and let yourself drift down the granite corridor. The castle was still alight with torches and whispers, but as the hour neared midnight, after what you'd just had to see, what you'd just had to say, each step dragged you closer to the ground.

"Y/N. . ." Tormund guided you into an alcove and lifted your chin. "Whoever did this will suffer greatly. Their deaths will come only after weeks of slow torture. I swear it."

The steel left your bones. Doubt clouded your mind, and your hand fled down to your belly. "Tormund, I've made a mistake and it will hurt you. I. . .simply couldn't speak of it."

Right at that moment, his eyes seemed to fall on something above your head. Whatever it was took his full attention, and his brows arched sharply. His fingers seemed to dig into your scalp, causing you to gasp and recoil, and he pulled away the bronze feather hair comb Kyr had given you earlier. You had used it to hold together your simple hairstyle. The hand he held it in shook as he stared down at it, face turning a violent shade of red.

You reached down to take it from him, but he snatched it back, now boring his eyes into yours. "That was a nameday gift."

"And that is fucking naive." Tormund threw the thing so far that you didn't see where it landed, only heard the tiny plinking as it bounced off stone. He backed you into the wall, whole body taut, barely in control of the blossoming fury within. He leaned his head down and tilted it, not once blinking, just staring daggers into your eyes.

You slapped him, hard, and shoved his arms and his chest until he backed up. Your finger flew to his face, and you stepped between his feet. "You'll never do that again, Tormund Giantsbane, or you'll wake up with a slit throat and a sword sticking out of your ass."

He didn't turn his face towards you again, only breathed heavy and hard with a hand-shaped print against the visible parts of his cheek.

"I'm not scared of you," you whispered, pulling his collar.

With no further words nor a glance back at you, Tormund grabbed you by the upper arm and practically tossed you in your bedchambers once you'd reached them. Rather than fight, he pulled your body close and kissed you. When you tried to push him away, he held you in a bone-crushing hug.

"You don't understand what he did," he growled. "I'm going to tell you and then I'm going to find that fucking Thenn  _cunt_  and I'm gonna kill 'im."

"It was just a gift!" You protested with a scowl.

"I told you from the beginning I was jealous." He had you pinned against the wall, still, but spanned your belly with his hands. "I've told you that from the start. But that cunt. . .Fuck. . .The Thenn shave their heads and scar them, aye, but their women  _don’t_. They wear it long, and always with pretty little pins and  _combs_  from the one that took 'em. Understand me?"

You pondered this incredulously, shaking your head. "No. I know that it wasn't that way. You may hate him and he may hate you, but all of that comes from beyond the Wall, and you're both here now, and you're both smart enough to know what to put behind you in order to survive. He's hardly anyone to them. They won't have him as their leader or Magnar or whatever it is. That's his brother. Kyr is odd, but imagine how  _stupid_  he would have to be to do something like that to your woman on the day you're married, or at all, ever. This is ridiculous. You know this. Sigorn is the one to watch. Sigorn is the one leading two hundred Thenn."

"I never put stupidity past a man, and he's hardly more than a  _boy_." He kissed you again, turning his head to stay with yours no matter how you twisted. "Anyone who noticed what was in your hair knows that that fucking Thenn as good as threw you over his shoulder and fucked you in the bush."

"It was a comb, not a cock, and don't be ludicrous, no one would ever, ever look between me and him and think that there was anything between us, and neither should you!"

"I don't!" He protested sharply. "I never accused you of anything but not knowing what it meant."

After moments of palpable tension, you sighed heavily and leaned your full weight against your husband. "You believed it when I said that I had made a mistake that would hurt you."

"For a second. Then I thought that if you had, you wouldn't be wearing the proof of it."

You slapped his arm this time, and his hands stayed where they were, covering the little ginger baby he spoke to every morning and every night. He kissed all over your hair and forehead defiantly.

"At the very worst, it was a prank by a young fool," you dismissed summarily. "But it wasn't. He's smart. Young, but smart, and when we spoke as he walked me down the corridor, he talked of the survival of his people and how I fit into that. He told me that he hated you and you hated him, and that I wasn't the favourite of any Thenn, but, and I'm guessing here, that I would probably be able to convince you and the rest not to ostracise the Thenn. Yes, at best, a misguided and thoughtless, ignorant thing to do, but Free Folk customs are  _clear_ , and if he wanted to knock me over the head and carry me off into the wilderness, I daresay he has had and failed to take many opportunities to do so. This you know, Tormund."

You closed your eyes as the silence went on. After a while, you laced your arms around him and held back. The hour was nearing midnight, you were sure of it, and the events of the past day alone felt like they had taken place over the course of a week. Weariness soaked you like a pool of icy water.

"I wasn't trying to scare you, I promise." He sounded ashamed. "I don't trust the boy, and if I see him soon, I'll pry each of his people-eating teeth out of his skull, but I  _am_  sorry, Y/N."

You sighed. "And I forgive you. I am eternally grateful that you are enough of a man to admit it. To say that you are sorry. I am sorry, too, my love, that we have quarreled. I'm afraid I'm the one who has far more to be sorry for. . ." You felt yourself age a thousand years over the next still seconds. "Come and sit with me, you'll need a drink. I need a fucking drink."

"I'll have another in your honour." He handled you like brittle glass along the way to your table, almost sheepish in his movements. He hated when he lost his temper with you, always. Once seated, he had trouble looking at you, and rolled his cup between his hands on the table's service. "I'm a fucking ass."

"None of that, now. This is far worse, I'm afraid. I'm the ass. Just listen to me, all right?" You sat back in your seat and folded your hands in your lap. "None of this was meant to hurt you, I swear. And. . .you've been so kind and respectful of my wishes  _not_  to talk about my dreams. The strange ones, where I see things that have happened before. I don't know the point of them, really. All they do is make me unhappy. Scare me. Do you think they are bad?"

Tormund shook his head. "No matter what they are, they don't make  _you_  bad. I knew a warg. He understood the world in a way that most young men don't. Tried to warn us all about Jon Snow."

You laughed quietly. "I don't know if I'm a warg. I try not to think of any of it, but. . .Tormund, the first dream that I had of this kind, that I am aware, I dreamt of  _her_. I remember it to this day, clear as a bell. I saw my mother at the edge of the wood, and I ran to her with my heart so light. I just thought it was a dream in which I'd see her once more. I  _loved_  her. I wanted to tell her that I was happy. I remember thinking that she wouldn't care for my choice, but she would care that her little girl had grown up to be a happy woman. But when I reached her. . .I saw that  _thing_. Exactly as she was tonight. I remember thinking that she appeared as though everyone told me she would, that her neck was cut wide open, and my heart was broken, and I asked what they had done to her. She. . .reached  _inside_  me, through my stomach."

Before you could say another word, Tormund's chair legs, tilted as they usually were, clattered to the floor. He leaned over the table with his fingers gathered to a point beneath his chin, and soon he brought his hands up to his hair. "This is when you woke and the baby was lost."

You nodded. It felt as though, in that simple action, you were undoing a terrible falsehood that you'd kept up for a long time. You waited for his anger to spark again, but it never did. He never reached for a cup. After a while, he did reach out to rest his hand on your leg, but his eyes were still distracted, as though he were looking on something that you couldn't see.

"Fuck me. . ." he breathed at last. "She hated wildlings enough to kill her own grandbaby?"

"She will not do it again. As I said, I know that she would not have liked my choices, but I do not think that the real Catelyn Stark was capable of such a thing. She loved her children too fiercely to cause one so much pain and suffering. She knew that it was most likely I would give her the first of her grandchildren, too, and she would talk about them with me sometimes. She wanted them. Please, do not hate the memory of the woman that my mother was, for we are in many ways the same."

"I don't forgive those that hurt you, and I don't forgive those that hurt my children." Tormund leaned forward over his elbows, planted firm on the table's surface. "I have one less child, owing to her."

"If you only could've known her."

"That would never have happened, Red Wedding or no." The contempt in his voice was not for you, so you remained quiet and willing to listen, for he was always listening to your own words. "I have had dreams too, you know. Not the same. Dreams of what could have been. Dreams of the woman you were before your baby was cruelly killed, before I even knew that such a killing had happened.

"I've had repeating dreams of meeting you first near the Milkwater, and it would have been so much simpler, maybe better, had that been the case. I don't fucking know. Maybe were it not for the Others--I don't fucking know. All of it could have been so much easier and I could have just had you and there wouldn't be all manner of bullshit distracting us both from having little babies and teaching you to hold a sword. It could have been a life shared."

You cleared your throat after much thought. "Our lives are shared. I promise to keep nothing else from you."

"It was your way of protecting me," he dismissed. "Rearranging Kyr's cunt face wouldn't have been enough for me, if I'd known the whole truth. I would've spent all these months looking for her."

"You're too kind and too quick to dismiss what I do wrong."

"Perhaps just to make up for how you drag yourself through leagues of broken ice for not being perfect." He stood from his seat, exhausted of the conversation and the thoughts gnawing away in his mind. He held his hand out to you, and, when in bed, he lay his head down beside your belly and sighed deeply. "Hello, tiny thing. Did you know it's possible to miss someone you've never met, never held in your arms? I miss you."

"I am sure that he misses you, too." You smiled down at him and ruffled his thick hair. "He wants to climb on his papa's shoulders and reach for his beard."

Tormund sat up abruptly, a sort of sad, faraway look to his eyes. "Can you do it without me?"

You tilted your head and pursed your lips in question.

"The execution," Tormund clarified. "I should take the boy away. He shouldn't see a monster, not even if his mama is slaying it."

Your heart fluttered in your chest and you held your hand over it for dramatic effect. Laughing at the first sign of his smile, you nodded. "He's your boy, now. I agree that he shouldn't be present, and I appreciate you giving up the chance to see me kill something for the first time to distract him from all of these awful things."

The freshly-lightened atmosphere, was fleeting, however, for as you could have expected to happen, three strong knocks against your door rang out in the night.

"Fuck!" You screamed it loud enough for the entire castle to hear and mashed your palms against your eyes.

"Y/N." It was Jon's voice.

"I swear it by the Old Gods and the New," you muttered, shaking your head. Before Tormund could move, you were up and tossing things over on your way to the door to grant your brother entry.

"I know," Jon placed his hand on your shoulder and took a long, deep breath.

"No one is ever allowed to come to my door past suppertime ever again."

"Y/N."

"I mean it. Whoever tries again, I'll let Tormund have them. I can hardly sleep or have any sort of peace within my own bedchambers because of the utter fucking  _madness_  and  _chaos_  that surrounds my life and permeates this castle so completely. What am I to guess now? Has Father's crypt sprung open? Has the head of Robb come rolling into Winterfell, sword between his teeth, ready to battle the Lannisters?"

"Y/N, I know, believe me, I understand, there've been too many--"

"I don't think that you do, Jon! You may be a put-upon king, but I am  _with_   _child_. There is another human being growing inside of me, and I've got that mad fucker over there talking to it all the time, I've got Sansa pushing swatches of fabric into my hands and embroidering nappies--three days ago, Serald the Bold  _whacked_  me in the face with a stalk of wheat because it's apparently 'good luck'! I heave and I cry and I still have to show up, same as you, I still have people depending on me, same as you, still trying to figure out how to keep them fed--"

From behind, Tormund moved his hand up to cover your mouth. Chin on top of your head, he ignored your muffled screeches of indignation. "Snow? What in buggering hells can it possibly be now?"

"Y/N will be happy. And angrier, as well." His big, dark eyes shimmered with promise, his lips twisted from smile to grimace, and he cleared his throat. "I've just gotten word that Petyr Baelish was found killed."

Behind Tormund's hand, you squeaked with exuberance.

Tormund shifted so that he could hold your arms to your sides. "By who? Not one of the Free Folk?"

"Nay. Not by a man or woman of the Free Folk, an Umber, a Stark, a Mormont, nor a Valeman." Jon looked you dead in the eye, now, his hands on either one of your shoulders. "I think. . .I think I know what your mother came here for."

Tormund roared and jumped back in shock as your teeth sank into his hand.

"Serves you right!" you said over your shoulder before turning back to your brother. "Wait just a moment Jon, and gather your thoughts accordingly, because it sounds like you are trying to tell me that Mother was the one who killed Littlefinger."

He nodded, his unbound curls bobbing along with the motion of his head and neck. "He asked to have a moment alone to speak to her in the dungeon, and when the guards returned, the cell was unlocked, the chains were on the floor, and so was Baelish, in a puddle of his own blood next to a Valyrian steel dagger."

You studied every line in your brother's face like a fortune teller trying to divine a grand future. His eyes had the beginnings of slight creasing, and you suspected it had far less to do with laughter than it did long hours reading correspondences late into the night. It was both strange and delightful to see his hair unbound, made him look a few years younger and almost gave him the look of a carefree youth, although he had never been one. "And that's all we know?"

"I'm afraid that it is, at least for now. Every nook and cranny of Winterfell is being searched, but that will take well into tomorrow afternoon. I thought, perhaps, you may prefer a more secure location to sleep--and for love of the gods, Y/N,  _please_ , you have to rest." Your brother braced himself, but the fight never came.

"Where is more secure?" you asked.

"In your house in Winter Town. We can have guards at every corner, every window. For a time, it'll be much easier to secure the one house. Just until Winterfell has been swept a few times over. Some of the Free Folk are already quite anxious to get their queen away from the revenant, the ghoul--they have a lot of names for what she may be."

"They want you under  _their_  supervision, they don't trust winter's guards anymore," Tormund interjected.

You looked at him, then at Jon once more. "They need to have their eyes on me, for now. I will be safe there. I need the maester to tell me if there is something that I can drink to help me sleep that would not harm the baby."

Tormund shook his head resolutely, command of the entire room in his control simply by stretching his broad shoulders and tucking his thumb and forefinger beneath your chin. "Dahild and Naiah will know. I want you with them at all times. If that creature comes near you again, their order is to kill. Understand?"

"Please." You gazed up at him imploringly. "I need answers. I need to know why she killed Littlefinger. She could have come for me, but she did not."

"First you wish to kill her by your own hands, now you ask  _me_  to act with restraint? Knowing what I do now? No. You'll find no answers from her own lips, and dead things ought stay dead. She will not come close to you again."

Tormund always abided your thoughts and words, but past a certain point, there was no changing his mind. You saw the hairs raised on his neck, the battle-rage flush on his cheeks, the darkened skin beneath his eyes, and that way he moved, as a snake prepared to strike. He believed in treating you as an equal, and he believed it would always be your counsel that steered him clearest, but his patience was run out.

You understood, but you didn't, and that was healthy, you realised. Parts of him, of what he was and how he thought, would and should always remain a mystery. You smiled for the wild things that kept him free. "Yes, my King."


	14. Chapter 14

In the weeks that followed your rather eventful wedding day, tension held Winterfell in a vice. Raiding parties worked round the clock in their search for the murderous Lady Stoneheart, as she had been dubbed through whispers of frightened men, but nothing had turned up. Not a square of her rotted flesh or a thread from her ruined dress. You thought about that dress, what it looked like when it was new and beautiful, a dress your mother wore to witness her brother’s marriage. You wondered if she felt glamorous. If she felt beautiful. You wondered if she was proud, relieved, happy, even, that this business with the Freys would be settled.

“M'lady?” One of your girls, Gretchen, gently removed the snapped quill from your hand. She was new. All of them, save Mila, were new. “My lady! Look, you’ve pierced your skin and got ink in it. That’ll leave a permanent mark.”

“I’m sure I’m all right. Thank you, Gretchen.” You dusted the raven scroll you had just written and lightly dusted it with pounce. After blowing it away, you rolled and sealed the scroll, using your new and personal sigil.

“M'lady?”

“Yes?”

“I should be accompanying you to the seamstress, milady. You wanted to meet in the west solarium because it has more light, remember?”

You smiled over your shoulder at her and washed your hands briskly in the basin. “Whatever would I do without you? Have you seen that she’s received with iced milk and raspberries?”

“Er, yes, milady, that was what I told Mila.” Gretchen’s eyes were down to her feet.

“Oh, come now.” You grinned her way and pulled on a simple frock. “Mila is only foul-mouthed. She’s a perfectly capable young woman. She told me the other day that she was going to act as my midwife, could you believe?”

“She probably means it full well, milady!” Gretchen fussed about your dress and hair until you piped up and reminded her there were places to be. The two of you walked arm in arm, bonding as Lady and maid, your spare hand never once leaving the now perfectly prominent pooch of your belly. It was not large now, by any means, but there for anyone to see, and you felt so proud, as if the existence of your baby would right the world all on its own. There were others that certainly felt the same way.

Thoros of Myr liked to contend that he had no children that he   
ever knew about, at the least. He was waiting outside the west solarium with his gentle smile and sword and at least four ounces of rum in him. Jon and Tormund were in fervent agreement that you needed appointed guards, and through their rolling eyes they accepted your request for the priest.

He stepped closer with eyes only for the baby and his crooked smile. “A fine morning to you, baby Stark and Lady. I reckon it could almost be twins, don’t you?”

You shoved his shoulder and went inside the solarium. “Maester assures me there’s only one, just a big one. Only one heartbeat. Wait outside, Thoros! I’ve got to undress.”

“Fine, fine, but you’ve got a quiz in High Valyrian today!”

“I am so sorry about that,” you greeted the seamstress.

“Oh, that weren’t no trouble for me, milady!” The old woman was dressed to the nines, meant to show you her considerable skill, and the lovely dress was topped up with a headdress that was somehow both crisp and flowing, all Stark colours. She gave a little bow, as she probably could not curtsey, and gave you a fond look. “I s'pose ya don’t remember me much, do ya? I were Lady Catelyn’s dressmaker all her life here at Winterfell. I ‘member, clear as crystal, how lovely my dear Lady looked when I measured  _her_  belly, with that strong, strapping Robb in her womb! Do sit upon the lounge, milady, better for your comfort and my measures.”

Gretchen assisted you in seating yourself comfortably. You were just now getting to a point where moving in certain ways made you a bit stiff and sore. Once you were laid back and the old woman fluttered around you, pulling spools of measuring tape from her trunk, you managed to gently grab her hand. “Please forgive me, but I have forgotten your name, in all my time away from home.”

“Oh! Me name’s Fran, or Ol’ Fran, as the nippers have taken to callin’ me now. We’re to be takin’ the measure of your belly, right milady? You’ll be needin’ new gowns, soon, I see!” Fran smelled of talcum powder and her face reminded you of what you always thought Mother’s would look like, had she grown old. Full of lines of laughter and love, kind eyes, a free and happy smile.

“Yes, I’m very excited, I can assure you. That is why I would really appreciate dresses that fit the form of my belly, you understand? I won’t have it hidden, as is the fashion in the North.”

“Oh, neither did your Lady Mother, not 'til later! She were so proud of all of ya.” Fran took her tape and measured from your breast bone to your pubic bone, her old eyes peering at the figures. She copied them down hastily on her pad and took careful measurements across your belly, of your bust, your upper arms, telling pleasant stories about your mother that truly brought a smile to your face. With all this Lady Stoneheart business, you hadn’t realised how your heart needed to hear these warm things.

“Now, I can use these and meddle with th’ figures to get ya up to six months, thereabouts, but ya should summon me for more measures then, milady, 'specially considerin’ yer wanting form-fitting numbers. Now, are we ready to take a look at these sketches, hm?”

You did your best to remain conservative in your choices, although Jon DID insist you have what you wanted. The North had never been so wealthy, since annexing the Vale and the Neck, and rarely had you ever seen Jon so happy.

“I hope I am not too late.” Daenerys whisked into the room with Missandei’s sweet smile following her. “Please forgive me, my goodsister. Jon and myself were discussing the Westerlands.”

It was  _bizarre_ , no doubting it, but there was no sense in putting it through the paces. As Daenerys insisted from the beginning, since she arrived on the back of her great, black dragon, the babies that grew within you both were more important than any external bothers.

She smiled so beautifully at you, then looked down at the dresses you had to choose from. “Oh, my. It seems I have much to teach you about dressing like a queen.”

“You may. Fran, this is Queen Daenerys Targaryen, she is Jon’s wife, as you may’ve heard.” You smiled back and squeezed her hand. “This is Fran, Dany. She can fit you for properly warm garments for the duration of your stay at Winterfell.  _Do_  allow her, Dany, I won’t have my brother’s wife shivering!”

“I find it hard to say no to sensibilities. During my last pregnancy, I was wearing the barest of clothing, but that was summer, in the desert sands of Essos…” Her belly was larger than yours. You did not know the full story of her miscarriage all those years ago–you didn’t exactly have the full story of anything–but you did feel quite deeply for her. You had not even anticipated your baby, and it had been horrible. “Fran, I shall need new dresses and gowns to accommodate the growth of your prince. My attendant will need to make an appointment with you, after you’ve taken care of my dear sister.”

Fran stammered. “Oh, certainly, Yer Grace!”

Daenerys stayed with you for the entirety of your appointment and left Missandei behind to handle all of the details of her own. She hooked arms with you and led you to the chambers that had once belonged to your parents, where she now lived, a lunch prepared for you both. “I’m to understand that you’ll be much too busy to meet with me over the next few days, so I’ve arranged something rather sumptuous.”

“Gods, Dany!” You laughed at the ridiculous spread. There were at least three cakes.

“We eat for two, both of us. It’s only fitting that we consume enough to satiate the little ones.” She practically glowed, and moved so gracefully, you could have burned with jealousy if you did not already love her so. You’d tried, but she made it difficult to hate her. “If I’m not mistaken, it’s the Thenn that will be arriving shortly?”

You nodded and pulled a napkin over your lap. “Yes, they went out further than most of the other parties. They did not recover her. It seems as if she’s just…vanished.”

She gave you a sympathetic look and patted your hand. “We shall find Lady Stoneheart and she will be dealt with humanely, even if she has been robbed of her humanity. She will be put to rest, Y/N. I will see this done myself, both to bring you peace and for the pursuit of justice.”

“Oh, Daenerys, you and Jon have much wider concerns. I choose to stay ignorant of most of them, but I realise the limitations set before you–your resources are funneled into the war efforts. I only wish to move on, now, truly. Look at us, with new husbands and children on the way. I do admit, I am surprised that you would call me a queen.”

She lifted one beautifully arched brow. “The lands of the Gift and beyond are your kingdom. They are no part of my claims in Westeros. Tormund Giantsbane is king of those lands, and you are his queen consort. Once the threat is eliminated and our enemies crushed, I shall take Drogon and Rhaegal to the Wall and melt it to the ground. Summer will come, and your people will have warmer lands, strong trade, and an iron-clad alliance. Everything they have ever deserved.”

Your eyes widened. “I-I do not know what to say!”

“You need say nothing. Everything will be as it should. As it was promised.”

You gripped her hand again and smiled at her with glistening eyes. “When I heard about you before, I thought that you were a person who wanted nothing but conquest, that you did not truly care about the people, especially not  _my_ people. No one else does.”

“You had my enemies whispering in your ears, my sister.” Daenerys looked so serene, glowing and warm. “I admit, I was a stranger to this country. I still am, in many ways. I came unprepared because Essos was all that I had ever known. When I met Jon…His council is what has kept my armies strong, kept my head clear, and shown me what it means to be a queen of Westeros. Now that I am here, I become more and more a queen of Westeros each day.”

When Jon had told you that you hadn’t been the best sister to him, he failed to list his love affair among the matters you had been missing. There was reason for the secrecy–Sansa had not known, nor Tormund, though he’d been present when Jon and Daenerys first laid eyes on each other. The child that grew inside of her alone was reason enough to impose strict controls on communications and for Jon to suffer it all quietly. Her sudden arrival, you knew, was not sudden, after all, that she and Jon had planned for it to happen after the combined celebrations that lent so many guests to your halls.

You smiled at your hands, wane and wistful. “I am grateful for your kindness.”

“I have never truly had a family,” she responded with some hesitation. “I grew up with only my brother and stories he told me of family, but I have come to learn, just as I learned that he was a fatally flawed, cruel individual, that what I had been told was not entirely true. I was conceived when my father was raping and torturing my mother. I have never had a sister. I have never felt the love and bonds that the Starks so clearly demonstrate. I have no fond memories of Father or Mother.

"Over the years, I’ve come to appreciate my advisors, but…I am still their queen. They may love me, and I may love them, but I am their ruler, their protector. They have invested faith in me that precludes a true familial connection. I do know that I have quite literally flown into your life amidst what must be for you a series of personal nightmares, at a time when, I understand, what you want most is to be close to those that you love and have no guests. I admit to my own…jealousy may be a poor choice of words.

"When I became close with Jon, I began to understand just how much I had been missing in my life a sense of family and home. Home was never where I was. Home was the Iron Throne, across the Narrow Sea…He helped me see that I never knew what the word home meant.”

Daenerys sipped at a glass of wine, her eyes fixed on nothing in particular, and you suddenly felt terrible for the lost little girl she had once been. You let your cutlery clatter against your plate, which gained her attention.

“Home is not a cold thing forged of death and defeat,” you told her. “Home is hearth and friends, returning to where it is warm, embraces, the smell of a baby’s head, the way that laughter echoes through halls of stone. Sansa has removed to the Vale as its Lady Protector, I have no honest idea where Arya is right now, my brothers have been murdered, along with my father, and my mother has risen from the grave a vengeful ghoul. Here at Winterfell, I have Jon, Tormund, Ned, and now you. And dragons. I’m glad for it.”

“Y/N, are you in there?”

You sighed sharply and balled one of your fists. “I speak his name, and, like a demon, he rises from the smoke and appears. I apologise, Dany.”

She laughed, soft as velvet. “Ser Tormund, please enter!”

Your husband’s face was covered in soot, and Daenerys made him visibly nervous, but he came inside the room anyway at her beckoning because it was where you were. You had tried to explain to him the family connections that you both now shared with Jon’s new Targaryen bride, but it never took. He was still treating her like a foreign oddity with terrifying murder lizards. He jerked a thumb at the door. “Mormont’s going to lose a hand if he keeps trying to come between me and Y/N.”

“He’s not, he’s just performing his duties to his queen,” you protested. “You’re more hateful towards him than even I am, and I spent years listening to Father talk about how Ser Jorah was too cowardly to stand at his own death sentence and so on and so forth.”

“I shall speak with Ser Jorah,” Daenerys promised. For some reason you were not yet the wise of, she had  _no_  animosity toward the Free Folk, and had treated Tormund like a king in his own right as long as you had known her. Maybe they reminded her of the Dothraki, in a way?

“Is something wrong?”

His sharp eyes darted around, hands coming to his hips. “Uh. No. I just need to take you away now.”

You considered putting up a protest, but knew that it would not work. Looking back to your goodsister, you folded your napkin and placed it over your setting. “I–”

“No apologies,” she held up her hand. “I have kept you long enough. I will see you again sometime within the next week?”

“I assure you.” You stood and allowed yourself to be drawn away by your slightly dirty and uncharacteristically quiet husband. He moved quickly, prompting you to squeeze his hand and slow your pace so that he would match it. “Ginger Dear? You look troubled. I am sorry for my mood. I’ve been in an odd sort today.”

“I don’t like it when you’re alone with her.” His voice was gruff and irritable. “I still say she’s mad.”

“Not today,” you sighed.

Tormund nodded obligingly. He had spent the past weeks on nervous edge all throughout, rarely sleeping when out on searches. Finding Lady Stoneheart had become something of an obsession, but now that the Thenn had returned empty-handed, just as he had, many times before, there was no delaying your already extremely belated celebrations with the Free Folk. Maybe that would smooth the lines on his forehead. Your steps faltered even more as you watched him, noted how he would not look back at you.

You pulled gently until he would follow into one of the many alcoves that came at regular intervals of the corridors of the keep. The two of you had been in almost every one at them, desperate for more. There was a strain ever since he knew that you had kept the truth about your miscarriage from him. It was easier to ignore in the thick of the catastrophe that followed closely after, but the quiet was so consuming now.

He looked at you, now, turned to face you, appearing manic and barely contained–but what was he trying to contain?

From the first press of your lips to his, though, you could tell, happily, that this had been the right thing. He spread his fingers across your back, his hands so big that you could feel them all over. This was warm and good in a time where cold and terrible things dominated your minds. It was easy to get carried away. It was easy to get smudges of soot on your face, transferred from his. It was easy to feel the frustration that simmered beneath Tormund’s surface, but he would not let you break away to ask.

Locked away safe in your chambers, you separated again, although he watched you from across the room.

“How did you get so filthy?” You washed your hands in your basin and flicked your eyes back at him.

“Adventures of Ned and Tormund.” His voice was still low, still gruff, but laced with affection.

“Oh?” Your face broke into a wide grin and you sat on the foot of your bed, legs crossing. “Tell me all about them. My heart is singing.”

He crossed the room to your desk wordlessly and unfolded a blank scroll. You watched in surprise as he picked up an etching pencil and began to scrawl on the page. When he was done, he closed it in his fist and pushed it into your hands once he’d reached you. “He taught me.”

You pulled the paper carefully taut and nearly let it drop to your lap.

'I love Y/N’

“Oh.” You sniffled and wiped your tears away with the sleeve of your dress, taking uneasy breaths. You looked at it again and again, reading the three simple words written in your husband’s hand. “This is the greatest gift I could’ve received.”

“You’ve given me a lot. I thought I could learn to put things on paper if it makes you happy.”

“I’ve given you a lot of shit. A lot of frustration and more than your share of difficulty.” You held the note to your chest and shook your head regretfully. “I’m sorry for all this madness.”

Tormund sat with you, one arm coming around your waist. “I’ve wished I could since I met you.”

“You didn’t have to be able to write my name for me to love you.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why did you come for me?” you asked softly. “To show me?”

“I’ve always come and stolen you away from people, places. You didn’t look glad to see me.”

You sighed and slumped your shoulders. “I was having a rather good conversation with Daenerys about family and home. I was thinking about Mother. All…this.” You gestured widely with an open palm. “All this weariness and unhappiness and fear. Long nights. Being trapped in different rooms with people guarding me. Dragons and secrets. It’s not you that’s made me unhappy. I’m sorry that–”

“You don’t make me unhappy, either.”

“What has?”

He shrugged. “Nearly everything else. I haven’t seen you. Mad woman on a dragon. Can’t fucking save my own baby from a murdering corpse. Kyr’s pin in your hair. Take your pick.”

“I ran to her. I was the one that ran to her.”

“In a dream. You just wanted your mother. I dream about mine, too. Wish she were alive to meet you and the little babies.”

“Trust me when I say that you do not want her to come back.”

“I’ll tell you one fuckin’ thing.”

You mustered half a smile. “What?”

Tormund leaned a bit closer. “Life with you hasn’t had a dull fuckin’ moment.”

Now you felt lightened and the room transformed all around you to the place that it had been before, a place where laughter was shared and Tormund would talk, telling wild stories until you tried plugging his mouth. You made yourselves comfortable on the feather bed and ignored the maids that came and went.

“How have we gone this long without anyone else bothering us?” you asked.

Tormund chuckled darkly from beside your rounded belly and shook his head. He was near his baby again, and whatever horrible things he had done to get some privacy for the both of you seemed irrelevant. “Soon, very soon, I’ll be holding you.”

“Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re speaking to me or the unformed person within my person,” you said dryly.

“It’s important to talk to them while they grow! They can hear your voice. Our daughter will come in the world knowing her Papa’s voice and how  _much_  I love her.”

“I don’t think there could ever be a doubtful second in her life. Or his life, whichever. This baby is the envy of all babies in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“And every baby that comes after.”

You closed your eyes and smiled. “I thought that Rickon was the most beautiful baby alive. I wasn’t even a woman flowered when he was born, but I kept him in my arms as much as I could. Mother was melancholy for months after. She had a hard time of it and cried whenever she saw him. Oh, but he was my best joy. And Arya. And Bran. And Sansa. Before her, there was a brother who never lived past the cradle, and before that, me, and before me, Robb. And Jon. He had to be one of my babies, too, even though he was older than me, because I could not let him go feeling unloved.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Snow happy before now.”

“All the more reason to plaster a smile on your face and pretend you think Daenerys is lovely and not mad.”

“I don’t give a piss about the dragon queen,” he scoffed. One of his big hands covered one of yours. “She will burn him like the sun. House Giantsbane knows no queen–”

You laughed so hard, so suddenly, that your neck gave a soft pop, and your husband’s head and your child were practically crushing your bladder.

“–except the Queen-beyond-the-Wall, whose name is Stark.”


	15. Chapter 15

The children lay wreaths of herbs and hardy blooms on your lap, passing one by one or in pairs. Karsi's daughters came to you at various points and wrapped their arms around your neck; Johnna placed a single, tiny conch shell in your palm, like a secret. By custom, Tormund could not turn down a single fight, although most were good-natured and laced with laughter and drunken outbursts of song.

The fires were so high and there were so many bodies moving, an undulating crowd, that the air almost felt warm. These were the people that you had been told to fear, all your life. Your mother, in your dream, had whispered frantic fictions to your father that being wed to the Lord of Last Hearth would prompt more wildlings to attack, wildlings who would seize the opportunity to rape Ned Stark's daughter and cut her throat. If only she'd known the beauty in this culture, its freedom. If only she'd known her eldest daughter would marry again, become their queen, and earn their love.

Because of his immense size and the plausibility that one of his footsteps could crush a few people, Wun Wun sat about ten feet away on a seat that had been made for him long before. He wore his bow at his back and looked at you now and then. He didn't seem to mind you looking back. You smiled at him, remembering he and Rhaegal staring at each other, marveled at the sight, your vision shimmering to witness the first meeting of dragon and giant there had been as far back as anyone did know.

All night, people had come up to you and said things in the Old Tongue or the ancient language of their clan, often with their hand on your stomach. As a favour to Daenerys and to his new king, the Unsullied leader, Grey Worm, stood guard beside you so that your people could focus on the festivities they had long been denied during the hunt for Lady Stoneheart. He was a serious-looking man, but you'd seen the smiles he gave to sweet Missandei.

You leaned into his squinted field of vision and waved your hand gently to get his attention. He staked his spear into the ground, standing straight. "Oh, do not stand at ceremony on my behalf! I am sorry," you said, recognising his confusion. You slowed your speech, but kept your cheery grin. "Grey Worm, would you like something to eat or to drink? You have been still a long time."

"It is good to been still," he rasped.

"To  _be_  still," you gently corrected.

He nodded. "Thank you, grace."

"I know that Queen Daenerys has asked you to be my guard for the night, but you are also my guest, yes?"

He nodded again, if a little uncertain.

"Please, take a few moments to refresh yourself," you insisted.

"I will guard her."

You turned to your side and saw that Kyr was approaching. It was a bit of a double-edged sword, but there had been little to no mention of him since the night of the wedding. Tormund had seemed pleased, even, that the Thenn were willing to ride for a week in each direction to cover a larger radius.

You stood, as was proper to greet a leader, even if he did not consider himself to be one, and gave a short bow of your head. "If you would not mind, it would honour me greatly to allow my guest to have a drink and warm himself by the fire."

Kyr motioned for you to sit with a little frown, then stood side by side with Grey Worm. After pleading with him with your eyes for a moment more, Grey Worm stepped a few feet away to the closest fire. He had not allowed himself to shake, but he shivered now. You wondered how the rest of the Unsullied were to manage with so little meat on their bones in the North as winter closed around you all.

"They are a strange people." Kyr sounded like he was struggling more through his Common, which you assumed meant he'd had a bit too much to drink.

"My goodsister has told me very much about them. They suffer awful cruelty, enough to make them believe they aren't even human so that they may commit inhumane acts. I think she told me that, in order to prove their mettle, they must kill a baby before its mother?" You frowned quite a bit and touched your stomach. Had Grey Worm taken a child from his mother's arms and killed it as she watched? Still, if she trusted him. . .

Kyr, evidently, did not. "This night is for the most important mother with us now, and the baby inside you. I do not like. None should discover."

"Then tell no one. It is only a night, and he's serving his queen, one that he chooses to serve. I have full confidence. Don't let any of the foolish things I say strike your nerves." You smiled out at the crowd again, but he came one step closer.

"It is true that when the dragon mother tries to kill you, it will not be so obvious in the way."

You sat up straight and glared at him. "Have you chosen me for a queen, Kyr?"

After a few calculating seconds, he nodded.

Your eyes softened. "Thank you. Please do not speak of her in such a way. She is my family now, and she's a vocal supporter of the Free Folk, and if you had not noticed, we don't have many."

Kyr crouched down beside you and looked up toward the crown of what you could only guess was yard waste that the little ones had placed atop your head. "You are my queen, not the dragon mother. I say nothing more of her. But if it be her or Jon Snow or the wizard or dragons that come for you, I kill for my queen."

"Would you have killed for Dalla?" you asked. The drummers were coming back around in their circuit, drowning out much of the surrounding sounds. Kyr looked at you hard and shook his head. You sighed. "Well, I suppose I should tell you that I am honoured. Do you know what I want as a gift from the Thenn?"

"What you want?"

"I want to learn some of the Old Tongue. It feels appropriate. The wizard has been teaching me his language--and there he is, Thoros!" You smiled and waved your arms until he noticed you, smiled his drunken smile, and slouched your way.

He lit his sword aflame and laughed. "Aw-right, never properly met a Thenn before. Who's 'is?"

"Kyr, son of Styr, who was Magnar of Thenn. Oh, he's leaving." You shrugged and reclined. "What misbehaviours have you been up to? Don't get anyone pregnant."

Thoros was looking after Kyr's retreating form, and seemed for a moment like he was going to follow, but he only extinguished his flames and sat on your bench beside you. He wasn't meant to, of course, but he probably knew that as well. "I wouldn't dare. The women here are scarier than you are. I've been trying not to look in the fires."

You took your friend's arm and leaned toward him with sympathy. "You know, they tell me that you're a great warrior."

"Don't know much about that." Thoros nodded in the direction Kyr exited. "That lad. He have a story?"

"Not that I know, so no. I've heard all their stories, by now. His father was Magnar, and Jon killed him at Castle Black, and then he fought  _with_  the next Magnar, Loboda the Fearless, who was killed by a White Walker. His brother, Sigorn, he's Magnar, now, in the Gift with the rest of the Thenn. Kyr is here with some, and hesitant to leave. I suppose if he has a story, it's that he wants to ensure his people won't be ousted or rise against them. His Common is usually much better, and he tells me about the lands he's from, how they had their own laws, the hot springs, their history. You know I love that sort of thing."

"And you know they eat people?" Thoros's voice lilted.

"Some of them, not all, apparently, even Tormund admits that. The Thenn had food, they didn't need to eat each other to survive. Fear tactics against the Crows."

"Well, if you're tellin' me, I trust it to be true. Keep your eyes peeled in those visions in your eyes for them, yeah?" He pulled the cork from his bottle and took a long drink. His hands were shaking. "How come you're sitting, anyway? It's your night."

You laughed and pointed to the makeshift fighting pits, where Tormund was still occupied. "While he's in there, if I'm to stand, I have to dance with anyone who takes my hand. You just happened to show up during a lull in all the gift-giving. Thoros?"

"Aye, my Lady?"

"Aōha rytsāri." You leveled him with a look. "You will see the maester."

He gave a full-blooded laugh, patted your arm cautiously. "Aye, my Lady. I'll take that dance, now."

So it came to pass, as you feared, that the dancing went on for what felt like an entire night, itself. It wasn't the sort of dancing you had been taught, either, so you were apologising through it all for stepping on toes, trying to lead, going in the wrong direction entirely. Men and women alike took your hands and spun with you. Grey Worm looked on nervously, and you felt regret for that. It was difficult to protect a woman dancing.

When, at last, it was Tormund that approached, that crooked grin, a bit of blood under his nose, you let go of some tensions you hadn't even known you were holding and graciously accepted his hands. It was the truest happiness you'd felt since before your mother's fetid face crept through the gates of Winterfell.

"I've been waiting for you," you whispered to him, swaying along. "I'm having a lovely time. Gods, I wish we'd gotten to do this sooner."

"I drank too much!" Tormund shouted, and you could see it in his eyes, along with looks of love and desire. "I love you!"

You laughed soft against the salt of his neck. "I love you with all my heart and soul, did you know this?"

"I love you with my heart and my cock and other places." He dipped you, and was careful about it although he was a bit drunk, but froze in that position, looking down at you for several beats after you stopped laughing. When he righted your position, he quit dancing altogether and pulled you up on the dais with him. The music stopped, and people, out of respect, not obligation, quieted to a low thrum. "I have only ever tried to lead you. I have tried to make a better life for all of the Free Folk.

"I sure as fuckin' shit never thought or planned for this. For her. I know that none of you ever did. She chose me, just like you did. She gave the fight when I took her from Winterfell and tried to slit me throat and everything. That was not the moment she became your queen. Y/N became your queen through certain individual choices that every one of you made."

A wave of fervent agreement rose from the crowd of gathered people, and you could hear Wun Wun's loud grunt behind you.

Tormund swung your arm so that your hand was lifted above your head. "Tonight, and for the nights after, you celebrate my wife, the years she's lived, the baby that grows inside her, and the  _queen_  you chose to make of her. You honour me, and I'm humbled. You protect her, and you honour me. You fuckers are my people, have always been, and together we stand, here, at the Gift, at our homes Beyond-the-Wall, in fuckin' crow castles that we took."

He let your hand go and looked at you with that goofy grin as your people, your friends, cheered him on. Everyone loved to egg on a drunken Tormund. He turned to them again. "Jon Snow said to me once that he was clearing out some of the old ways of the south to make room for the new ones, and the blathering fool was talking about us, making room for you, for me, for our children. For  _my_  children, this babe and all others that follow, my wife and I have chosen to give them their names as their birthright, because my children and yours will survive with no need for milknames. This baby will be my blood, your blood. This baby is the start of a new life for the Free Folk, forevermore. This baby will be the Stark of Ruddy Hall, of Hardhome, of Bliss Key, of the lands we were born and fought for our all our lives, of the lands we WILL return to after the wars to come. If a son, Torrence Stark. If a daughter, gods help me, Rula Stark.  _Always_  free as me and wild as their mother. Gods damn you, Rose, not now!"

You elbowed him gently for chastising the grown direwolf that had come through the crowd to stand in front of you. She was so large and formidable, an imposing creature whose shoulders came to the swell of your stomach. You ran your hand affectionately through the scruff of her neck, this perfectly wild, Stark creature. She lifted her head then, and her soft yellow eyes looked into yours, and, if only for a moment, you could see yourself, as though you looked from her perspective.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find this and a lot more at my tumblr, warmommy.tumblr.com!


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